


Cor Cordium: The Musician

by onlyastoryteller



Series: Cor Cordium: A Neighborhood Pub [2]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2019-09-16 20:09:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 50,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16960692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyastoryteller/pseuds/onlyastoryteller
Summary: AU. Tim is a singer-songwriter in Boston, Massachusetts, trying his hand at busking after hitting some obstacles in his life. Armie owns a pub. When Tim gets a chance to fill in for a sick performer, he knows in an instant that he needs Armie in his life more than he's ever needed anything else, including basic necessities like shelter and food. But will he be able to take what Armie is offering, or will his past get in the way?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part Two is here, with all its flaws and growing pains.
> 
> First of all, thank you to stmonkeys (chalamazed) for her incredible cover art. I am still stunned by it and eternally grateful.
> 
> Second of all, thank you to peachesatmidnight, who supplied the lyrics you see herein. You should check out her instagram for her original work.
> 
> This part is more challenging to write than the first, for a number of reasons. Since I also don't have a bank of written chapters yet, posting will be a LOT slower than the first time around. I am hoping to find a good rhythm soon and fall into a regular posting schedule. Right now I'm going to aim for weekly, but I can't make any promises, especially at this time of year. I'll do my best, and I promise I'm not going anywhere for a long while.
> 
> I hope you enjoy being in Tim's head as much as I do, and that this part lives up to your expectations.
> 
> Love to you all, especially my personal cheerleaders. You seriously keep me going.
> 
> Soundtrack: For this chapter, you're probably best off listening to some Antje Duvekote, especially the following:  
> \- Merry Go Round  
> \- Dublin Boys  
> \- Milk and Trash  
> \- Streets of Soho

****

**Chapter 1**

_Tim shut the door to Armie’s room behind him, flinching at even the soft_ click _it made._

_It sounded so final. So...irreversible, even in its almost apologetic quietness._

_He stood for long minutes with his back to the door, his right hand still on the doorknob, his eyes closed so as not to have to look at the empty sitting room of the suite._

What in the ever-loving _fuck_ was he doing?

_On the other side of that door was a man Tim was sure would do anything for him. Who loved him — he had said so, out loud. Right there, practically in his grasp, if he would only just turn that knob again, was more than he ever thought he would have. More than he deserved, since he was such a fuck-up who had made his own family—_

Nope. Don’t go there. Minefield.

_Tim smiled faintly. He could almost hear Armie’s voice in his ear, a rumble of reassurance and praise. He was done with thinking that shit about himself. He thought he had been done with it, anyhow. These past couple of weeks, he had started to see things — himself — in a new way. That was thanks to the man on the other side of the door._

_The man he was fucking walking away from, like the idiot that he—_

_He could feel the shaking starting from somewhere deep within, that tremor inside his chest that would eventually work its way out to his skin, his lips, his fingers. He pressed a fist to his mouth, trying to hold it in. This was_ not _the time to fall apart, Jesus Christ. He had to keep it together, just long enough to open his eyes, let go of the fucking doorknob, and walk out of the suite._

_Then long enough to get downstairs and to the T station. Long enough to get back to Armie’s place, so he could pack his things, and…_ shit.

_Tim was sure that, the farther away he could get, the more physical distance between them, the easier it would be. He was making the right choice, he was. He fucking_ was. _He needed the time to think, to figure things out, to come back the right way._

_But he couldn’t let go of the door. Even though Armie had said to take the time he needed and that he would wait, even though Tim had every intention of coming back as soon as he felt he could...part of him was afraid that once he let go, this part of his life — the part that had started less than three months ago — would be over for good._

_Tim pressed harder against his mouth, his knuckles smashing his lips into his teeth so hard he was sure he was causing bruises to form._

_What if none of it had ever happened? What if he had never met Armie, never gotten a chance to play at_ Cor Cordium _? What if, on that afternoon in early October, he had decided to ignore Luca’s call?_

_He almost had. It had been that close._

* * *

There were too many people on the subway platform.

Tim had grown up in New York City, was fucking used to crowds and spaces that were teeming with people, all with their own independent agendas and missions and goals. He understood that when you lived in a city you had to get comfortable with the knowledge that you weren’t that important in the grand scheme of whatever, you were just a tiny ant crawling your way over obstacles and other ants to get to your prize before someone else took it.

That was fine. Rush hour in the subway — whether in New York or in Boston — was nuts and you had to just pull in your elbows and keep your head down and try not to get pissed at having people in your personal space.

But, Jesus. Did they have to keep fucking _kicking_ his guitar case?

He tucked a heel inside the edge of the case and pulled it two inches closer. The only two inches he had left.

All the while, he kept up the steady strumming of his guitar and tried not to lose track of the lyrics. Where was he? Oh, right—

 

**_In the background of my mind_ **

**_In the foreground of my heart_ **

 

Tricky chord progression — why the fuck had he written that as part of a chorus, Jesus — and then a brief interlude. Tim looked up, just in time to see…

_Oh, hell no._

A guy in a pinstriped suit planted his shiny fucking shoe right _in the middle_ of the open guitar case, on top of the stray bills and change the crowd had been tossing in for the past hour. He fixed the guy with a glare, but it went unnoticed.

Feeling the irritation rising to the surface and threatening to break free, Tim forced his eyes closed and made himself focus on the music. He finished one song and immediately launched into the next, choosing one he had been singing for years. It was one of his favorites, both the lyrics and music. Maybe, if he lost himself in that he could forget, for a minute, the other shit around him.

 

**_I cannot decide which road you will take_ **

**_I cannot decide how much my heart breaks_ **

**_All I know_ **

**_Is that here_ **

**_Is where_ **

**_I am meant to be_ **

 

When he strummed the last chord, he was silent for a beat. He hated — _hated_ — this part, not knowing if people were going to applaud or just ignore him, if they were even fucking listening or if he was just annoying background noise as they went about the end of their day.

This time, there was — thank god for small favors — a smattering of applause. Two women leaned over and dropped some change in his case. One gave him a shy smile, which he tried to return, before she disappeared into the growing crowd.

Suddenly, a voice carried over the rumble of the commuters, a voice with the pleasing lilt of an Irish accent. “Timmy Chalamet, everybody,” it proclaimed. “Let’s give him a little more appreciation, for he’s grand. We’re lucky to have him.”

_No way._

Tim stood on his toes and peered over the heads of the crowd, who were now engaged in more widespread applause. He grinned, a laugh bubbling up from deep inside and scattering the tendrils of irritation, at least temporarily. Down on the other end of the platform was Saoirse, wearing her headset mic, her guitar slung across her chest. She lifted a hand and waved.

“Happy Thursday, Timmy,” she said. “Mind if I play in a bit?” Her voice was tinny and hollow, amplified throughout the station by her little portable Pignose, but it was still music to Tim’s ears.

Saoirse had been his first busking friend, the first person to welcome him into the fold, to show him the ropes, to support his attempts to make some kind of a living by playing on the street. She was the one who had taught him when to get a crowd going and when to lay back and let them come to him. She had helped him figure out the best spots and how to make friends with the old-timers so they would help him...and not get pissed at him for encroaching on their established spaces.

He’d do anything for Saoirse — especially since she sometimes let him crash on the floor of the room she shared with her girlfriend, and he was sort of hoping she’d let him do just that that evening.

He raised his hand in a thumbs up. “Go for it,” he called out.

She nodded and began to strum her guitar, choosing her tried and true opening number about merry-go-rounds and the ups and downs of life.

Tim figured he’d give her time to get in a short set before reclaiming the space and establishing a back-and-forth, because he could use a break from the increasing crowd. Maybe they could play together a bit...she always seemed to enjoy that as much as he did.

A train roared into the station, drowning Saoirse’s voice. He knew she’d just strum her guitar and wait for it to pull away again before continuing with her song — another little trick she had taught him.

He scooped the cash out of his case — looked like maybe thirty bucks or so, not bad for the early rush hour, maybe people actually liked him and he was imagining that they were just putting up with him out of politeness — and pocketed it. He shifted the still-open case in front of his duffle, slung his messenger bag over his shoulder, and darted onto the train and out the other side to the outer platform. Dodging the incoming commuters, he bounded up the stairs to the surface, his guitar thumping against his back.

On the street, the wind had picked up, and the temperature had dropped. He hunched his shoulders slightly in his jacket. This was just the beginning. He had spent three winters in Boston so far, and it was fucking colder than New York, no matter what anyone tried to say. It was _wet_ in Boston, and the wind that swept into the city from the harbor was icy and brutal.

He tried not to think too hard about what would happen in a month or so, when it started getting too cold to play outside. Then, spots would become scarce and it would be harder to stake one out and hang onto it. That was when the buskers fled south for the winter, like a bunch of fucking birds.

Tim had thought about what he might do then, and it had hurt his head, so he had stopped. He’d figure it out. He still had a little time.

He lit a cigarette, mainly to have something to do, and checked his phone. While he had been down below, with the ringer on silent, he had missed a call. He saw the name on the display and his stomach turned.

_Not today,_ he thought. _Not fucking today_.

He was already sort of on edge — even if he didn’t really know _why_ , these days he never seemed to need a reason to feel like he was crawling out of his skin — and a message from _him_ was likely to send Tim sailing right over that edge and plummeting to the darkness below.

And there was a voicemail. He shouldn’t even listen to it. He should just delete it.

_You should have blocked him from the start, you idiot. But no, what if there was something important, what if he decided to apologize, what if he suddenly —_

Suddenly nothing. Thinking that way led to madness, and destruction, and Tim had sworn he was fucking done with it.

Still...his finger hovered over the play button. His stomach dropping, and cursing himself all the while, he touched it and brought the phone to his ear.

The voice, that had at one time made him smile and feel safe, was suddenly worming its way into his brain like a lethal parasite. It had been a while, but the effect was the same. That nauseated feeling that was churning its way around his stomach now was almost like an old friend.

“Timmy, it’s me. Daniel. I haven’t heard from you in a while, and wanted to check in. Make sure you were doing okay. Will and them haven’t heard from you either, and Will says he’s pretty sure you didn’t go back to New York. We’re all worried about you.” Daniel’s voice dropped slightly, as though he was trying for a more private tone. “ _I’m_ worried about you.”

Tim tried to remind himself that Daniel could put on an act better than anyone he had known, and that included the theater crew at his performing arts high school. He cautioned himself not to fall for the apparent sincerity.

Daniel didn’t care about him. He never did. He had, in fact, reminded Tim how insignificant he was on a regular basis towards the end. Just because they hadn’t seen each other in over a month, nothing had changed.

_He wants something_ , Tim thought. _He always just wants something from you_.

The message was still going. “You know you’ve always got a place to stay here. I don’t have to tell you that. Or maybe I do. But there’s plenty of room. No strings attached, I swear. Just...let me know you’re okay. Call me back.”

Tim squeezed his eyes shut. Daniel sounded so legitimately worried. He knew that part of what Daniel said was true — Will and the rest of them probably _were_ worried, since he had been ignoring their calls too. Maybe he should reach out. To them.

But what would he say? _Yeah, I’m kind of homeless at the moment. I’m doing okay, but I’m not sure about the winter._

No fucking way.

The message ended. Tim deleted it immediately. He had no need of listening to it again, and he _definitely_ wasn’t going to call back. He wasn’t.

He sucked on his cigarette for a few minutes, and was getting ready to head back down into the station and pick up his performance when his phone buzzed. He nearly ignored it, assuming it would be Daniel, but it wasn’t.

The name _Luca Guadagnino_ flashed on the screen.

Tim stared at the phone, trying to decide whether to answer. Luca didn’t call him often, and it was usually just to check in and offer a place to stay. He always answered for Luca, since the man had been so helpful to him back when all of this started, but at the moment, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to be in the right mood to chat. Luca would be able to tell that something was wrong, Luca could always tell.

Damn him and thank fucking god for him, all at the same time.

A particularly brisk breeze swirled around him, and he shivered. At the very least, he’d need to talk to Luca soon, anyway, get some of his winter things that the man had been generous enough to let Tim store at his house temporarily. He sighed, then plastered a false smile on his face, remembering that his mom had once said that, even if it was faked, a person could _hear_ a smile over the phone. Something about the shape of your lips when you formed words. Tim didn’t know if it was true, but it was worth a try.

“Luca, hey,” he said, answering the call. “What’s up?”

Despite his hesitancy to pick up, the sound of Luca’s voice soothed the frayed edges of Tim’s nerves. “Timo, how are you? You haven’t called recently, and you know I worry.”

_This_ expression of concern Tim knew to be sincere. His smile slid from fake to genuine before he realized it was happening.

“Sorry,” he said. “Busy, kind of. But I’m good. Business is good.”

“I’m so glad to hear it,” said Luca. “You know if you ever need anything, just call. Or show up at the house, for dinner, or to stay the night. We miss having you around.”

“Thanks, Luca,” said Tim. “Was that all? You wanted to make sure I was still alive?”

“Do not joke about that,” said Luca, his voice getting stern. “No, there is something else. You would be interested in playing traditionally, yes?”

“What are you talking about?”

“There is a pub, and they need a performer to fill in for one who got sick. Tonight. It’s short notice, I know, but I told the owner I knew someone who may be available.”

“Me?” Tim couldn’t keep the slight squeak out of his voice. He had been trying to get gigs for a while, but it was a hard business to break into, particularly in a city like Boston, where there were hundreds of performers — more — for any single spot.

“Yes, Timothée, you. Are you available tonight?”

“Hang on a second. This pub owner — he’d hire me without an audition?” Tim couldn’t keep the suspicion out of his voice. He had struggled to even get anyone to listen to him, let alone hire him. There was no way this was real.

“You’ll have to talk to him and see. He is...desperate might be the word. But, Timmy, he is decent, and he will pay you. Not just tips. You should do this, I think. It will be good for you, I can feel it.” Luca’s voice had taken on that paternal quality, the one that made Tim roll his eyes but feel warm and cared for nonetheless.

“What pub is it?” asked Tim.

“A place called _Cor Cordium._ ”

Tim smiled. He knew of _Cor Cordium_. He had never been there, but others talked about it. They were good to their musicians, and the crowds were respectful and tipped well. This could really be something, if he could pull it off.

_You can pull it off,_ he told himself. _As long as you don’t fuck it up._

“Okay,” said Tim. “Is he there now?”

“One moment,” said Luca.

In the seconds of silence it took to transfer the phone, Tim found himself swallowing rapidly, over and over. Could he do this? Could he actually land a paid gig? Could this be the thing that turned everything around for him, made it so he didn’t have to constantly leech off of his friends and could finally be independent and secure?

He didn’t know. But he was damned if he wasn’t going to go for it.

He held his breath until he heard a deep voice on the other end, saying, “Hello?”

Tim felt a slight shiver run through him at the sound of the voice. It was a _great_ voice, the sort of voice he could happily listen to reading washer/dryer manuals for hours.

He forced himself to speak, despite the electrified nerves dancing under his skin.

“Hey,” he said. “This is Timmy —” _No, don’t use Timmy, that sounds childish for this._ “This is Tim,” he amended quickly. “You need someone to play at your bar tonight?”

“Maybe,” said the man on the other end. “Our act canceled, and I’m having trouble replacing him on short notice. Where have you played before?”

Timmy smiled at that, because it made him feel better. Luca may have been right, this guy might be desperate for an act, but he also wasn’t an idiot. He was going to do some due diligence before hiring someone by phone whom he’s never met.

Of course, his question posed a problem, since Tim hadn’t played anywhere, really. On the street, in school, sure. But not anywhere real.

“Oh, I haven’t really…” he began, and then he kicked himself for it. No need to be _totally_ honest here, right? “You know, here and there.”

There was a pause, and Tim could tell the man wasn’t falling for his vague dodge.

“Where?” he pressed. “I know most of the pubs in the area.”

Tim bit his lip, hard. What to say? He could make something up, claim to have played in other local pubs, but...that felt wrong. If he wanted to establish himself, he had to start somewhere. Everyone did, right? Everyone had a first real gig. No reason this couldn’t be _his_.

He cleared his throat. This might tank his chance, but… “Nowhere official,” he said. “A handful of open mics. And...I sometimes play down in the T.”

“You’re a busker?” asked the man. His tone of voice changed, and he sounded relieved and no longer suspicious. Tim relaxed. If this guy was willing to accept busking as experience, then Tim’s respect for him was about to skyrocket.

“Yeah,” he said. “Trying to be, anyhow.”

“You any good?” asked the man.

Tim laughed at that. “You think I’m gonna tell you if I suck? I don’t suck, by the way.”

He cringed after he said that. Was that too much? He had been going for confidence and light humor, but maybe it was too—

But then the guy said, “Okay, I’ll give you a shot. Just be here by six-thirty to set up. You know where we are?”

_Holy shit, this was happening._

“Davis Square, right?” Tim asked. “I’ve heard of your place.”

“Good,” said the guy. “We have sound equipment; amps, cords, speakers, etc., but if you’ve got special personal preferences feel free to bring in your own. You’ll just have to set it all up yourself."

“I can use your set-up, no problem,” said Tim quickly. He didn’t have anything of his own, but wasn’t planning on revealing that. He wanted to seem professional, after all.

“Listen, here’s what I can offer you.” the guy said a number that made Tim bounce up and down slightly. That would cover the cost of hostels for a fucking week, and some food, too. But the guy was still talking. “And dinner, if you want to come a little early. It’s just pub food, but it’s decent.”

“Yeah,” said Tim, trying not to sound as breathless as he was feeling. “Sounds good. See you in a couple hours.”

“Looking forward to it,” said the man.

The line went dead, and Tim held the phone to his chest. Before he could stop himself, he was spinning in a circle, pivoting on his left foot like a fucking Disney princess. This wasn’t fucking happening, there was no way this was fucking happening. He didn’t have this kind of luck, and yet....

In a few hours, he was going to be performing in front of an actual audience who _wanted_ him to be there. Who might tip him. Who might tell other people about him, because they might actually know his name. And he was going to get paid for the entire experience.

He could feel the performance jitters starting already, but he smashed them down resolutely. They weren’t going to get in his way. He was going to make this work.

A few minutes later, he was back down inside the T station and packing up his things. Saoirse was on the other end of the platform, still playing. At the moment it was a song about boys in Dublin. He grinned, wondering how much of it was from experience, and then made his way through the packed space until he was at her side.

He waited until she had finished, and then he applauded along with the rest of the crowd. He leaned in for a hug, and she pushed her guitar around to her back and squeezed him tight.

“Hey there, dear one,” she said, tipping her microphone away from her face. She looked at his duffle and packed-away guitar and raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t mean for you to leave entirely, you know. You were here first, you laid claim. I just thought we could tandem.”

“I know,” he said. “It’s totally fine. But actually, I have to get going anyway.” He ducked his head and licked his lips, unsure how it would feel to say the words out loud.

“What do you have going on?” she asked, brushing some wispy blonde strands off of her forehead. “A hot date, I hope?”

He let out a surprised laugh. “Hardly. I don’t think — it’s going to be a while, for that, I think,” he said.

She reached out and placed a hand on his arm. “Timmy, that guy was an asshole. Not everyone is.”

“I know,” said Tim. “Just...give me a little time, okay?” He frowned, thinking about the voicemail from Daniel. If his reaction to even seeing that Daniel had called was any indication, it was going to be a long while before he was ready for anything new.

“Sorry,” said Saoirse. “I won’t push. What are you running off for, without even playing one song with me?”

“Well…” he took a breath. “I actually lined up a gig tonight.”

Her mouth dropped open, and then she squealed and hugged him again. “Timmy, that’s phenomenal. Where?”

“A bar called _Cor Cordium,_ ” said Tim. “In Davis.”

She nodded. “I know it. I know people who have played there, it’s a good spot.” She punched him in the shoulder. “Nice going.”

“Thanks.” He shrugged. “I think it might be sort of a right-place-right-time thing.”

“Or maybe it’s right-place-right- _Tim_ thing.” Saoirse giggled at her own joke, and then tilted her head to the side. “Seriously, dear one, that’s fantastic.”

“Listen,” he said, “they’re paying me, so I could kick in for it, but I was wondering if you had space for me tonight.”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course I do. I have told you, haven’t I, that you are always welcome. Our floor is yours. Greta and I love having you around, really.”

“I’m sure Greta doesn’t want me on your floor _all_ the time,” said Tim.

“She does. She was saying just the other day that I’m nicer to her when you’re around, and she’s right. You make me a nicer person, Timmy. It’s just a fact.” She reached out and ruffled his curls. “But yes, to answer your question, you can stay tonight. In fact, I insist upon it. I’m going to want a full report on your very first paid gig.”

“You got it,” said Tim. “And thanks. Seriously. Now...stop talking to me and give these nice people a good show.”

“I always do,” she said. She leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “You go kill it.”

He gave her a little salute, and then began to thread his way back through the crowd. He had a couple of errands to run before the gig, and he wanted to find a spot to sit down and choose a few set lists. And a place to change his clothes, make himself look presentable.

This was a chance, and he wasn’t going to let it pass him by.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, chapter 2 is here!
> 
> This is a struggle, y'all. I thought it would be easier to write part 2, but it is, in fact, immeasurably more difficult. I think that's because there are now expectations that I'm trying to live up to.
> 
> I am hoping the chapters get easier (and better, since this one is...I don't know), but hang in there. I'm not giving up. We'll get these boys to their happy ending eventually!
> 
> Chapter 2 Playlist:  
> 1\. White Lexus - Mike Doughty  
> 2\. Time Will Be the Healer - Glen Hansard  
> 3\. What If - Adam Friedman  
> 4\. Quit With Me - Lucy Wainwright Roche  
> 5\. Leave a Light On - Tom Walker  
> 6\. Unsingable Name - Mike Doughty  
> 7\. Lebanon (SST Studio Session) - J.S. Ondara  
> 8\. Adore (acoustic) - Jasmine Thompson  
> 9\. I Hear the Bells - Mike Doughty
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6IKbGDa4UioKcFa2vvMmxx
> 
> **cover art by chalamazed (stmonkeys)

****

 

**Chapter 2**

_Tim took a deep breath, and then another, as the memories of that day washed over him._

_He_ hadn’t _let the opportunity pass him by. He had gotten the chance because of a stroke of good luck, being in the right place at the right time. Or rather,_ Luca _being in the right place at the right time. But however it had come about, he had picked up the phone, had said_ yes _, and then had taken that opportunity and made something of it._

_That was one thing, at least, that he had done right in all of this._

_No, not one thing, Tim reminded himself. He could imagine Armie’s voice, stern and growling, scolding him for doubting himself._

Don’t fucking sell yourself short, Tim, _he would say._ You did a lot of things right, you worked hard, and you deserve the fucking success.

 _Tim smiled. He_ had _worked hard, that was true. Not just since that day in October, but for most of his life. Since he was a kid, and had spent hours practicing first the piano, then the guitar, instead of doing whatever normal kids did. Since he had chosen to focus his free time on composing instead of playing online games with other kids in school. Since he had begged to go to the arts high school rather than the regular school his sister had gone to, swearing that he’d save up and pay his parents back the tuition someday. Since getting into Berklee and rising to the top of his class academically and developing a reputation in performance._

 _He had worked his ass off, damnit. That phone call, the sick performer, the fact that Luca had happened to be a regular at_ Cor Cordium... _all that was just the universe paying its due._

 _Which was why he had to walk away from Armie before he got...distracted. If he let himself get too wrapped up in Armie now — or, rather, even_ more _wrapped up in Armie — he might get complacent, his ambition dulled by the way Armie made him feel, content to let opportunities pass him by while he lived in the fuzzy cocoon of being in love._

_He couldn’t let that happen. He had done it before, and where had that gotten him? Out on the street, everything fucked up, with no real path forward._

_It’s not that he was worried about Armie behaving like Daniel. That wasn’t the point. That had never been the point. Daniel was an asshole, and Armie would never treat Tim that way. But Tim was the one who had fallen for Daniel’s act, who had let his relationship with Daniel fuck up everything else, who had…_

_He couldn’t screw up like that again. He wouldn't survive it._

_Tim bit into his lower lip, hard, and let go of the doorknob. He took a step forward, and then another. He could do this, he could make it the remaining fifteen or so steps to the door._

_He wasn’t going away for good, he reminded himself. He had asked for a week. Just a week, just enough time to figure out how to set things in motion, make a plan that he could stick to even if he was with Armie._

_But he couldn’t make his feet move any farther. He was trying, but it felt like they were glued in place, fastened to a carpet made of tar. He imagined himself stepping out of his shoes, then his socks, desperately trying to reach the door as the tar-carpet clung stubbornly to any part of him that touched it._

_Maybe it was too late. Maybe he couldn’t leave anymore, not now, not after everything they had shared. Maybe he should have walked out before things turned, before Armie realized what he was feeling._

_Tim nearly laughed at the thought. He couldn’t imagine that_ that _would have been any easier than_ this _was. He had certainly gotten hit in the teeth with...whatever the beginnings of love were... as soon as he had fucking laid eyes on Armie. And Armie had been drawn to him as well. He had felt it at the time, even if Armie hadn’t been aware of it, and even if Tim had thought, for a while, that he must be imagining things._

_No...from the moment he had met Armie, his ability to walk away had evaporated. It simply hadn’t been a choice._

_Tim continued to bite down on his lip, hoping the sharp pain would keep him focused on the task at hand. But it was no use. He thought back to that evening, when he had walked into_ Cor Cordium _for the first time, trying desperately to squash the negative mood he was in and gear up for his first real paid gig._

* * *

When Tim emerged from the red line at Davis Square, he was practically shaking.

On the one hand, he was terrified to perform and fuck everything up. He would probably screw up the lyrics — even though he had never done that before — or mis-tune his guitar, or fall off the edge of the stage, or suddenly lose his voice. Or something equally ridiculous.

On the other hand, he was excited. This was a big deal, and he wanted — so badly — to do well. If he did, maybe they’d ask him back. Maybe he could get a regular gig, bring in some steady pay. It could be the beginning of crawling out of this hole.

He could _do_ this. He just had to keep it together.

Distracted by these thoughts, he didn’t think when he felt his phone buzzing in his pocket. He pulled it out and answered without really looking at the display.

“Hello,” he said, half-ready to hear the pub owner’s voice on the other end cancelling the gig.

“Timmy.”

Tim froze at the sound of the voice on the other end, stopping in his tracks. Someone behind him swore as they zig-zagged around him, shooting him a dirty look. He stumbled on shaky legs to the edge of the sidewalk, trying to get out of the way.

Bracing his palm against the window of a crêperie, he choked out a response. “Daniel.”

He should just hang up the phone. Just hang up, hang up, hang—

“I’ve been so worried. Did you get my message? It’s so good to hear your voice.”

Tim was silent. He could have sworn he knew how to speak words, but they had all fled from his memory. It didn’t seem to matter. As much as Daniel professed that it was good to hear his voice — yeah, right, that’s why he hadn’t called before now — he just kept talking. Like always.

“Listen, we should get together. Have dinner or coffee or something. I can come to you, wherever you want. My treat. I miss you.”

Like a cold shower, Daniel’s words — _I miss you_ — sent a bone-deep chill through Tim’s body, and he dropped his duffle onto the brick at his feet. There was a time when he had wanted to hear those words, so badly. Wanted the phone to ring, for Daniel to say _I fucked up, I miss you, I didn’t mean any of it, come back, I was wrong, let’s work things out_. Anything.

Then, when he decided he didn’t actually want Daniel to want him back — or rather, he wanted Daniel to want him back, if only so that he could say _fuck off asshole_ — he had been afraid to hear the words. Afraid because he knew he was weak, and if Daniel said _come back_ he just might, because it would be easy. And when he thought about it from his current vantage point, it wouldn’t have to be so bad, really. At least he’d have somewhere to stay while he figured out his next step.

He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth together, trying _not_ to be weak. He was doing okay busking, he had Saoirse and a few others. Luca. He didn’t need Daniel now. He didn’t want to go back. He was not going back, there was no fucking way, no matter what Daniel said.

No matter what.

“Timmy? You still there?”

Tim’s eyes snapped open and he straightened up. “I’m here,” he said, trying to unclench his teeth. “What is it you want, Daniel?”

There was a pause. Then, in a gentle voice, the one he had always used to tell Tim how perfect he was when they were lying naked together, Daniel said, “I told you, Tim-Tim. I miss you. I want to see you.”

“Why now?” asked Tim. “I mean, it’s been over six weeks and I haven’t heard a word from you. Why suddenly now?” He cringed. He probably shouldn’t engage even this much.

What was it Saoirse had said? _No contact is the only cure, darling. You can’t talk to him or see him. Don’t let him in even an inch, or else he’ll take the rest and you’ll be back where you started, and he’ll consume you whole and leave nothing behind._ Saoirse was probably right. She was always right.

“It’s not just now,” said Daniel. “Come on, Timmy. You have to know that when you just left like that, it killed me. I couldn’t sleep for days. I barely went to class the first couple of weeks.”

“You didn’t call, how was I supposed to know?” asked Tim. “Especially since the last thing you said to me was that I was a — what was it? — a ‘dollar store slut’ and you could get a dozen ‘ cheap pieces of ass’ like mine by breakfast.”

Daniel sighed. “I was mad,” he said. “I was angry with you for leaving. But I didn’t mean that. And I didn’t stop loving you.”

“You—” Tim nearly choked on the words, but he managed to get them out by swallowing hard and breathing through his nose, “— you told me you had _never_ loved me. That you just said it because you knew it was what I needed to hear. That I was gullible and naive and that’s why I needed you more than you needed me.”

“What?” Daniel actually sounded surprised. “Timmy, I never said anything like that. What are you talking about?”

The world spun a little, and Tim put his hand back on the window to steady himself. “You did say that. The night you — the night I —”

“You’re remembering it wrong,” said Daniel. “Imagining things again. God, have you been thinking that the whole time? I don’t know what I said that you interpreted that way, but I wish you had said that’s why you were so upset. I could have cleared it up sooner. You always did that, kept stuff to yourself, so I didn’t know how you were feeling.”

Tim was having trouble catching his breath. He couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. He remembered that night, the night he had caught Daniel in bed with another guy, like it was yesterday. It was so clear in his memory, every sound, every scent, every sweat-streaked patch of skin. Every fucking word.

Daniel had laughed at him. Laughed at his anger, at his hurt. Told him that he was Daniel’s to do with whatever he pleased, that he was stuck and couldn’t complain. That he had to just take whatever Daniel was willing to give him. Which included a place to stay and food to eat and comfort, and he should be grateful for it because no one else would take him.

There was no way he was remembering it wrong.

Was there?

 _No. Fuck that._ Saoirse had warned him about this, too. Said that if he did allow contact, Daniel would try to change the story. That was exactly what the asshole was doing.

“I don’t think I’m remembering anything wrong,” said Tim. “But whatever. I’m not really interested in seeing you, and I’d rather you didn’t call me.”

“Come on,” said Daniel. “Don’t be like that. We had such a great time together. Even if you don’t — even if you don’t miss me the way I miss you, I’d like to be friends, at least. Let me buy you coffee. Just coffee. One of those lattés you like so much.”

Tim shook his head. Daniel was not letting this go, which meant he had been right. The guy fucking _wanted_ something from him.

“I said no, Daniel.” Tim was proud of himself for standing so firm. He imagined Saoirse patting him on the head and grinning at him. He could do this.

“Okay, look,” said Daniel. His voice changed, got sharper, less cozy and more business-like. “At least let me...do you remember when we played that open mic at _Shadow Shack_? And that scout came to talk to us?”

Yes, Tim remembered. That had been a great night. It had seemed like something was actually happening. He and Daniel had played together, songs Tim had written, and afterwards, the scout approached them. She had asked them a bunch of questions, handed over her card, said they should get in touch. They had called a couple of days later, but she was out of town.

That had been right before the night Tim had caught Daniel cheating and everything had fallen apart. In the confusion of the next few weeks, Tim had lost her card, and once he realized it he wasn’t about to call Daniel to ask for her info.

“Sure,” he said. “What about her?”

“She wants to meet with us,” said Daniel.

Aha. _With us_. Tim suddenly realized why Daniel was calling. He didn’t miss Tim. He had heard from the scout and _needed_ Tim, because she was interested in them both. Together. And wasn’t that poetic justice.

“Great,” he said, making his voice as bright and cheery as possible. “Just text me her info and I’ll give her a call.”

This time, Tim found the pause almost delicious. He could practically see Daniel gritting his teeth and trying to figure out how to get what he wanted.

After a minute, Daniel cleared his throat. “I think it would be better if we met with her together,” he said. “You know, since she first saw us together. I think that’s what she’s expecting.”

“Is she expecting that because you told her we would meet with her together?” asked Tim. “Look, I doubt it’s that big of a deal. Just explain that we’re no longer playing together, but that I’ll get in touch with her separately.”

“Timmy.” Daniel had completely dropped all pretenses at this point, his tone commanding and harsh. “Stop being a dick about this. Look, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to meet me at Pavement Coffee on Saturday at four. And we’ll play nice and get a record deal.”

Tim jumped slightly at Daniel’s words, reminding himself that Daniel truly no longer had any power over him. “Are you sure she’s offering a record deal?” he asked. “Maybe she’s just a booking agent.”

“Tim—”

“No, Daniel.” Tim dropped his own playful tone and lowered his voice. “I’m not meeting with you. Send me her info, or give her mine. And good luck.”

“Fuck you, Timmy,” said Daniel. “You know, I don’t know how you can afford to be so picky. Where are you living these days? Why haven’t we heard from you? I bet you’re fucking people for cash now, aren’t you?”

Tim nearly threw his phone into the street. Instead, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “You’re even more of an asshole than I remembered. I’ve got to go. I’m late for a gig. Don’t fucking call me again.”

He hung up the phone, quickly scrolled into his contacts, found Daniel’s profile, and hit “block this caller.” When the device asked him if he was sure, he hesitated. What if Daniel decided to be decent for a minute and texted him the info about the scout? Tim couldn’t even remember her fucking _name_.

No, that would never happen. Tim hit “okay” and pocketed his phone. Then he gave himself a shake, picked up his duffle, and continued down the street.

He felt...he didn’t know what he felt. Twisted up. Sick to his stomach. Angry. But also...he smiled a little, thinking of Daniel, who was probably throwing a tantrum at this very second, like he tended to do when he didn’t get what he wanted.

God, how had he thought he was in _love_ with this guy for so long? Tim shook his head, thinking that he needed to develop better radar to warn him off of assholes.

It was this thought that was in Tim’s head as he approached _Cor Cordium_. He licked his lips as he stepped up to the door, eyeing the large black sign with gilt lettering hanging over the entrance. Through the large windows that looked out on the street, Tim could see that there was a pretty good crowd inside already. He spotted a few posted pink flyers in the window and moved closer, squinting at them.

 

**_Timothée Chalamet_ **

**_Live at Cor Cordium_ **

**_TONIGHT_ **

**_7, 9, and 11_ **

 

Holy fuck. Look at _that_. That was his name, right there. Right above the part that said “Live at _Cor Cordium_ ,” like he was a professional or something. All thoughts of Daniel and Tim’s lack of asshole radar fled, and he was gripped with an intense excitement.

He could do this. He had to do this. And to pull it off, he had to look like he _knew_ he could do this. Squaring his shoulders, he grabbed the door handle and yanked it open, stepping inside.

The atmosphere of the bar hit him all at once. He could sense the energy of the after-work crowd: a little loud, a little shrill, a little desperate for release. He watched the activity of the staff, moving through the crowd with efficient smiles. He took in the warmth of the wood and the golden lighting reflecting off the brass accents.

Something inside him settled. He could see it. He could see himself playing here, on that raised platform in the back, to these people. He could imagine how the sound would fill up the room and create even more warmth.

As he scanned the room, he spotted one person who was head and shoulders taller than everyone else. The man was moving through the crowd, seemingly towards Tim, and as he got closer, Tim’s breath caught in his throat.

The man was fucking gorgeous. Like a Greek statue come to life, with eyes the color of the Caribbean and clean-cut blonde hair that seemed to be the model for “perfectly casual.” As the man got closer, Tim swallowed. He _was_ approaching, and he had a very...focused look on his perfect face. Did he...was it because he had seen Tim and liked what he saw? Was Tim about to get hit on?

 _Oh please let him be about to ask to buy me a drink_ , thought Tim.

The man stopped in front of him, and Tim held his breath.

“Hi,” said the man. “Tim?”

_He knows my name, he knows my — fuck, how does he know my name?_

Tim tried to figure out how to respond, but when he opened his mouth, the only thing he could manage, as he looked up and up at the man, was, “Holy shit, you’re tall.”

Two things happened at once. The man burst out laughing, his cheeks stretching to accommodate a huge, delighted smile that made him look somehow even more like a work of art. And Tim realized who the man was — this was the owner of the pub. Of course it was the owner. To think that someone who looked like _this_ would make a beeline for Tim of all people just because he spotted him in a pub was utterly ridiculous.

The man grinned down at Tim. He said, “Yeah, I am.”

Tim realized exactly what he had said that had made the man laugh, and wanted to crawl into a hole. Awkward much? He felt himself reddening and tried to will the flush away.  “Sorry, that was rude” he said. He lowered his head and shook it slightly. “Jesus, Timmy. Way to be an asshole.”

“It’s okay,” said the man. “It just made you sound honest.”

“Yeah, well…” God, this guy was being so fucking _nice_ and Tim was acting like a six year old. _Get it together, Timmy_. _Maybe introduce yourself properly, start with that._

Tim dropped his duffle on the floor and stuck his right hand out towards the man. “I’m Tim. You were right about that.”

The man took his hand — he had a fucking _firm_ grip, and his hand swallowed up Tim’s like it was starving — and shook it. “Armie Hammer,” he said. “I talked to you on the phone earlier. This is my place.”

“Armie,” said Tim, liking the sound and feel of the name in his mouth. He said it again, and then tried to think what it could be a nickname for. “Short for Armand?”

“Yep. Nice and pompous and aristocratic. I prefer Armie, even if it’s a little ridiculous.”

Tim smiled. He liked this guy already. “Try being named Timothée,” he said, pronouncing his name the real way. “And trying to convince people you’re from New York, and not a total snob.”

“So you’re not a total snob?” asked Armie. He had a look of amusement on his face, and Tim thought in that moment he would do anything to keep Armie looking at him just like that, like he was interesting and intriguing and...what was it Armie had asked him? Right, about being a snob. He decided to keep up the teasing tone that Armie was setting, see what happened.

“Oh, I am,” he said. “But I like to pretend I’m not sometimes.”

That got another laugh out of Armie, and Tim couldn’t help the broad grin that spread across his own features. Armie had a fantastic laugh. He had a fantastic mouth, too, and when he tipped his head back, Tim could see he had these two cute little pointy incisors, like vampire teeth. Tim wondered what they would feel like on his tongue.

 _What? Stop it._ Jesus, he had to get a grip. He was a professional here.

“Did you bring your own equipment?” asked Armie.

Tim was confused for a moment, until Armie pointed at the duffle.

“Oh. No, that’s…” Tim stumbled over his words. He couldn’t very well explain to this guy that he had all his shit in that duffle since he didn’t really have a place to live. _That_ wasn’t a great start to a professional relationship. What could he say? He finally landed on saying, “just some stuff I picked up from a friend on my way here,” and hoped for the best.

It seemed to satisfy Armie, because he nodded, and said, “Well, why don’t you come back to the office. You can stow anything you don’t want on stage with you. The office locks.”

Armie began to move through the increasingly crowded room — shit, there were actually going to be _people_ here expecting him to perform like a real actual musician whose fucking name was on a sign in the fucking window — and Tim hurried to catch up.

When Armie glanced back over his shoulder, Tim searched for something to say. “I see you used my full name on the signs,” he said.

Armie frowned. “Yeah. Luca gave me your name, and I didn’t really think about it. Was that — is that not what you perform under? I should have—“

Crap, he hadn’t meant to criticize. Was he always going to be putting his foot in his mouth, for all eternity? “It’s cool,” he said quickly. “I haven’t really thought about it either. I just worry that people will get confused, or be unable to pronounce it. My last name is hard enough.”

“Chalamet?” When Armie said his name, Tim’s breath caught. He liked the sound of it in Armie’s rich voice. “It’s not so hard. I like it. I like Timothée, too. It’s unique. Hard to forget.”

 _What do I say to that?_ Tim wondered. He went for self-deprecating humor, that usually worked pretty well for him. “Maybe I’ll call you Timothée for a while, and see if you still feel that way.”

They reached the rear of the main room, and Armie led the way into the back hallway, past the restrooms, and into the kitchen. Tim followed and had to strain to hear Armie’s next comment over the noise of the kitchen staff.

“Should I call you Armie, then? To balance it out?” Armie asked, with a smirk that hit Tim like a punch in the gut. Damn, this man was something else when his blue eyes danced with mischief. Tim tried to give back as good as he was getting, but he knew he was woefully under-armed.

“Seems reasonable.”

Armie unlocked the office door. Then he reached out and put his hand on the strap of Tim’s duffle. Tim tightened his grip, and Armie tugged slightly. He couldn’t explain it, exactly, but he didn’t want Armie to get a hold of the duffle. It was everything he owned, and what if Armie figured that out? Then he would _know—_

“I got it,” Tim said. “It’s heavy, you don’t have to—“

“Do I look like a weakling?” asked Armie. But he let go of the duffle and gestured at the corner. Tim set it down in the indicated spot, then transferred his cigarettes and lighter from his messenger bag into his pocket. He dropped his jacket on top of the pile and followed Armie out of the room.

“I promised you food,” said Armie, locking the office door again. “You hungry?”

Tim felt his stomach give out a loud whine, as if on cue. _How fucking embarrassing,_ he thought, pressing a hand over his navel in an attempt to silence the noise. He felt his face redden, and he — once again — cursed his pale skin. Armie was looking at him intensely, and Tim scrambled for words. What was the question? Right, Armie wanted to know if he was hungry. Obviously.

“I am, yeah,” said Tim. No use denying it.

“What can we make you?” asked Armie. “I can grab you a menu, but we’ve got all the standard pub food selections. Nachos, fries, variously adorned burgers, chicken strips, salads, chili.” He paused. “Is Chalamet French French or Canadian French?”

Tim’s hand moved from his stomach to his heart at the question. “Good god,” he said. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask me that.” Only...shit, what if Armie was French Canadian?

But Armie was laughing. “Got something against the Québécois? I’m only asking because we recently started serving a poutine.”

“Oh, well. That’s a different story,” said Tim with relief. “Poutine kicks ass.”

“Sometimes there’s salmon, but I think we’re out. Any of that sound appealing?”

Tim considered. “What do you put on your nachos?”

“You’ve got your choice of veggies or pulled pork.”

“I’ll take the pork.”

Armie nodded. “You got it.”

When the nachos arrived a little while later, Tim realized Armie had been selling the pub food short. Way short. The pork was slightly sweet, the vegetables crisp and fresh, the nachos perfectly crunchy. Even the salsa seemed to be freshly made. Tim had had many excellent meals in the past, but that plate of nachos might have been one of his favorites.

Of course, that might have had to do with the fact that he had skipped lunch.

Or with the fact that he spent the entire meal watching Armie.

The man was like poetry behind the bar. He moved gracefully around the other bartenders and servers, smiling at customers, handling bottles and glasses and taps with his long fingers like he was playing an instrument. Tim watched him smooth his hair back from his forehead, wink at the ladies, and laugh at jokes. Everyone seemed to like him, from his employees to his patrons.

If Tim wasn’t careful, he was going to develop a major crush on this guy before the night was out. That was the last fucking thing he wanted, to have a _thing_ for someone who might be able to hire him to actually play on a regular basis. Not only that, but he wasn’t ready. He _definitely_ wasn’t ready for someone new, especially not right on the heels having literally just blocked his last disaster from his life.

So. Tim tried to put up a wall. When Armie asked him if he needed help setting up, he told him no. Which was true, but if he had wanted to explore his options with Armie, he would have said yes. When Armie asked if he had enough material for three sets, he said yes and didn’t elaborate or encourage the conversation.

It was better if Tim just did his thing, played the show, did well, and got asked back. He didn’t need to be distracted by the faint stubble on someone’s jawline or the crinkle at the corner of someone’s eyes or the rumble in someone’s voice or the way someone’s hip looked when they leaned against the edge of the counter.

Okay, he was going to stop noticing all of that right now. Or...in a bit.

He focused on setting up the pub’s equipment and tuning his guitar, trying to block out all of the noise around him and every distracting thought that was flitting through his head. The closer it got to showtime, the more he was able to focus. And that meant that he was paying lots of attention when the nerves started.

 _Crap_. Maybe the crowd wouldn’t be in the mood for his type of music. Maybe they’d want something more like rock, not his singer-songwriter vibe. Maybe they’d talk through his entire performance.

 _Shut up shut up shut up_.

It happened right before every performance, had since he was a kid. His stomach would slosh around, he’d feel sort of like he had to pee — but he didn’t — and he’d sweat a little around his neck.

He knew how to deal with it. He needed a few minutes to himself, a cigarette — the nicotine helped to settle him — and some quiet. Then he’d be fine. He always was.

With that in mind, he moved through the crowd to the front door. He had about thirteen minutes before seven. Plenty of time to settle down.

Once outside, he moved off to the right, away from where most of the foot traffic was. He leaned up against the firm brick wall and tapped a cigarette out of its pack. It lit on the first try, and he breathed in, the routine comforting even before the nicotine kicked in. The cold air felt good on his heated skin, and he pulled at the collar of his shirts to expose more of his neck.  

He closed his eyes and felt himself sinking into the right headspace. He heard the noise from the street, the sound of the pub door opening and closing, the pedestrian lights on the corner chanting _walk, walk, walk_ like a cockatoo that has only heard one word, but it all faded into the background. He ran through lyrics in his head, chord progressions, emotions--

“Tim?” A voice cut through his bubble. That voice, the one he had been trying not to focus on.

It took a moment for him to pull himself back into the real world and answer. “Yeah.”

He looked over and watched Armie approach. “Everything okay?” he asked tentatively.

“Yeah. Fine.” Tim brought his cigarette to his lips, took a short drag, and blew it out slowly, buying himself a bit of time. “I just...I needed a minute.”

“Nervous?” asked Armie.

 _Shit_. Armie could tell, and now he was probably regretting taking a chance on Tim in the first place. He hadn’t even heard Tim play. He could still say _you know what, never mind, thanks for coming by, it’ll be fourteen bucks for the nachos and the beer._

Tim sighed. “And now you’re thinking, ‘I shouldn’t have hired this guy.’” He ducked his head, afraid to meet Armie’s eyes. _Please don’t cancel_ , he begged the universe. He just needed _chance_.

“Actually, I wasn’t thinking that at all,” said Armie. _He wasn’t_? “Nerves seem normal to me. This is...your first time playing a gig like this, right? You sort of indicated that on the phone.”

Tim nodded, deciding honesty was the best option. “Like I said, I’ve done a bunch of open mics, and I play on the street and stuff. But no one’s hired me yet to play for real.” He shot a sideways look at Armie. “You sure you’re not thinking you wish you hadn’t hired me? Because it would be understandable.”

“I’m sure,” said Armie. He didn’t sound sure, but Timmy wasn’t going to question him further. “Luca says you’re good, and that’s enough of an endorsement for me.”

Tim smiled at the comment. Good old Luca. “Luca’s always trying to look out for me.”

Tim took another drag from the cigarette, and they stood in silence.

“So…” said Armie, “it’s nearly seven. You going to be able to go on?”

There it was. Armie _wasn’t_ sure, and he was getting nervous that Tim was nervous. All Tim needed was just enough time to play one song, maybe two, and he knew — he _knew_ — he could convince the guy to let him stay. What could he say to make Armie feel more comfortable?

“Definitely,” said Tim. “I always get a little nervous, need to go off by myself for a minute. Then I’m fine.  Is it time now, or…”

Armie glanced at his watch. “You’ve got eight minutes,” he said.

Tim nodded. “Then give me six, and I promise I’ll make giving me a chance worth it.”

“You got it,” said Armie, and Tim breathed a sigh of relief. Then Armie cleared his throat. “You want me to leave?”

“No, stay,” said Tim quickly. Too quickly. What was he doing? He looked up at Armie, and then away. “I mean, unless...you probably have to get back inside. I don’t want to keep you from your job.”

“I can stay,” said Armie.

He had also spoken quickly, and Tim relaxed. He didn’t know why he suddenly wanted Armie to hang around with him. It didn’t make any sense. He usually _wanted_ to be alone before a show, just like he had said. Somehow...having Armie here felt better than that.

Armie leaned up against the wall next to Tim, and Tim tried not to think about how little distance was between them. This close, he could even smell Armie. And he smelled good, sort of like a mix of citrus and soap.

Tim remembered the cigarette in his hand, then fumbled with it and took another drag. On impulse, he offer the cigarette to Armie. As soon as he held out his hand, he regretted it. He could have pulled out the pack and offered the guy a fresh one, not the one he had been sucking on for the last ten minutes. But Armie plucked it from Tim’s hand without hesitation and brought it to his own lips. A moment later, they both exhaled as one.

Armie handed the cigarette back to Tim. “Is it smart to smoke when you’re a singer?” he asked.

Tim shrugged. “It’s not smart to smoke at all, right? I usually only have one right before a performance. It calms me down.”

Armie was so close, just an inch away. Without knowing exactly what he was doing or why, as if pulled in by magnets, Tim moved to the left just a bit, enough so that his left arm was touching Armie’s right arm. Armie didn’t flinch or move away, so Tim settled against Armie. He was solid, and warm, and he leaned right back, and something in Tim’s stomach loosened and then coiled lower down.

They didn’t speak as they finished the cigarette, passing it back and forth. It wasn’t lost on Tim that his lips were touching the place Armie’s lips had been, and vice versa. It should have been thrilling, but instead something quiet settled in Tim’s chest, and he sighed.

“Thanks,” he said, shooting a glance at Armie. “For checking on me. And staying. I’m good now.”

He was, he realized. He was very good. Not a nerve in sight. Just contentment and...confidence. He was going to nail this. He pinched the cigarette, so that he could extinguish the ember and throw out the butt inside, as was his habit. He glanced up, saw Armie watching him.

“I don’t like to litter,” he said, shrugging.

Armie grinned at him. “You’re kind of unique, you know that?”

That was a thing to say to someone. Was it a compliment? Tim decided it was, because Armie was looking down at him fondly, eyes shining in the light from the street lamp.

“So they tell me.” Tim looked up at Armie and before he knew what he was saying, he blurted out, “Jesus, you _are_ tall. How tall are you?”

“Six foot five,” said Armie. “You?”

“Five ten. Maybe eleven. I’m not short, but next to you I probably look miniature.”

Tim had never really had a thing for big guys. They tended to be threatening, or intimidating. He usually preferred guys he was better matched with. Of course, maybe it was time to rethink the size-is-everything mentality. After all, Daniel was shorter than Tim and Daniel had managed to wreck him just fine.

For some reason, he got the sense he was actually _safe_ with Armie.

“Or I look like a giant,” Armie was saying when Tim refocused. “I’m pretty sure it’s that one.”

Tim laughed and shook off his reverie. “Okay, Jolly Green, lead the way back into the lion’s den. I’ve got a show to do.”

He watched Armie smile in delight at his joke, felt the warmth spread throughout his core, and thought  _shit, I'm in trouble_. But maybe that wasn't such a terrible thing after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, once again, for sticking with me. Love to you all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim learns some bad news, reflects on a bad memory, and then things look up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: rough coming out scene
> 
> Those of you who are still here, thank you for your patience. I keep saying this, and I'm sort of worried I'm going to have to keep saying this, but this chapter was also a struggle. I'm not sure when it will get easier, but when Timmy is hurting, I have trouble writing him for long stretches, and thus the difficulty producing as quickly as before.
> 
> Heed the trigger warnings on this one, as there is a tough scene in here involving a bad coming out experience. I apologize in advance if I didn't get this right, but please believe I worked hard on it.
> 
> Future chapters will involve more Armie (yay), so hang in there! 
> 
> A huge thank you to peachesatmidnight for contributing some of the lyrics herein. You're amazing and talented, and I appreciate your help more than you know!
> 
> And, of course, thank you to stmonkeys (chalamazed) for her gorgeous cover art.
> 
> As always, 100% fiction. (Especially Tim's parents...they are what they need to be in this story and that is all.)

****

**Chapter 3**

_Okay, so he wasn’t going to make it to the door._

_Tim swallowed and acknowledged that, right at this second, his body wasn’t going to let him walk away. But he knew he also couldn’t turn around and go_ back _. So if he couldn’t get to the door…_

_Fucking fine. He could outsmart himself._

_He swiveled ninety degrees and pointed his feet towards the suite’s living area. He took a step, and then another. This was easier. As long as he wasn’t walking out the door, he could make himself at least move away from the bedroom._

_After seven steps, he reached the sofa and decided that was good enough. He sank onto it and flopped against the cushions, tipping his head back and staring at the ceiling._

_What if he hadn’t gotten to where he was now because he was talented? What if it was because Armie liked him?_

Stop, _Tim told himself. He tapped his knuckles against his cheek._

_Armie said that he didn’t know that what he was feeling was more than friendship until recently, but he had been feeling it, whatever it was, since the beginning. How had he put it? That he had felt a connection._

_He said...that it was like every piece of them, each step, was like one part of some big, long story._

_So what was this story? Was it a romance, where Tim met his knight in shining fucking armor and got everything he ever wanted because of it? Or was it — and this was better, right? — that he was the underdog who dealt with every obstacle that came his way and still made it to his happy fucking ending?_

_Tim clenched his teeth together. Did that mean that Armie was an_ obstacle _? No, that couldn’t be right. Armie was one of the helpers, the people who assisted him in his journey to his destiny._

 _But he wasn’t_ just _a helper. That didn’t do any of the things he felt about Armie — and that Armie felt about him — justice. At all._

 _So maybe Armie was_ part _of his destiny._

_Tim smiled. He liked that idea. It was part of what he wanted, after all. He didn’t want to walk out of here and have the part of his life that included Armie be over. He wanted to continue it, as soon as he figured out his shit._

_And not only Armie, but_ Cor Cordium _felt like it was meant to be a part of his destiny. He had known it from the beginning. Everything there had felt so easy. Like the place was already a part of him before he walked in, and had just been waiting for him to arrive. It was where he belonged._

* * *

Saoirse had taken one look at him — one look — when she opened the door that night, and burst out laughing, her head tipped back and her hair flying around her face.

“What the fuck?” asked Tim. He patted himself down with his free hand, touched his face. “What’s so funny?” God, if he had been walking around with nachos hanging off of his face for the past several hours…

“You are, darling. I’m glad you had such a brilliant night — it’s written all over your beaitiful features. Come in, come in.” She grabbed Tim’s duffle and heaved it up the stairs to the main room of the sprawling apartment she shared with seven others.

Three of them were in the living room, seated on a threadbare futon and watching something on a cracked flat screen television. He gave a small wave, and one of the three nodded back in acknowledgement. Saoirse’s roommates were mostly artists and performers, eight people crammed into three bedrooms on the second floor apartment of a ramshackle two-story house in Allston. Saoirse had explained that two of her roommates were on the lease, and the rest of them sublet. It was not quite legal for so many people to be living there, but the landlords looked the other way as long as the rent got paid and no one called the cops.

Saoirse had been so generous with letting him crash there, he sometimes worried that it would cause resentment with the roommates, but she had brushed off his concerns, pointing out that he wasn’t the only person who stayed there now and then. It was sort of what the apartment was for, after all, she had insisted.

Tim followed Saoirse down the hall to the rear bedroom she shared with her girlfriend, who didn’t seem to be around. The room was crowded with piles of clothing and sheet music, as well as stacks of Greta’s medical textbooks, saved from when she was in medical school before she had to take a leave of absence. A double mattress sat on the floor in the corner, and a desk with some napkins wedged under one of its wobbly legs was under the small window.

“Where’s Greta?” he asked, setting his guitar and messenger bag in the corner next to where Saoirse had deposited his duffle.

“Working late,” said Saoirse. “She’ll be home in a while. In the meantime…” she grinned at him and sat cross-legged on the mattress, patting the spot beside her. “Sit. And tell me all about it, and how incredible it was.”

Tim settled beside Saoirse and shrugged. “It was actually...pretty great,” he said. He told her about how it had felt, to sit on a stage, and have people listen — really _listen_ — to him as he played.

He had never experienced that before. Not even really during school performances or other recitals, which were attended by people who mostly didn’t want to be there but were attending out of obligation. To have people truly focused on him — and only on him — gave him an electric energy that made him better, somehow. He could still feel the tingling in his fingers, and he couldn’t wait to get back.

So he allowed himself to relive it while he told his story to Saoirse. How he had made it through the first set and looked up to see Armie there, on the side, beaming at him like he had just fucking solved world hunger. How it had been to feel that pride mixed with anxiety, that he hoped it was as good as he thought, that Armie had been impressed, that maybe, _finally_ , he was getting somewhere and wasn’t going to be fucking stuck playing on the streets for—

He blinked at Saoirse. She was smirking. Why? What had he said that had amused her so much?

“What?” he asked.

“Tell me about him.”

“Him?” Tim squinted at her. “What are you talking about?”

She grinned. “Him. The guy who’s got you all dazed and starry-eyed.”

“What? I…” Tim flushed, and looked away. Crap, how could Saoirse read him so fucking _well?_ If she could tell that he had met someone who had flipped his switch, then maybe Armie could tell, too.

Tim wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Especially not after the night he had had and where things had ended up. They had shared a few moments, and Tim thought Armie might have a spark of interest too…but he still wasn’t sure if he had a shot, or even _wanted_ one. It was dangerous.

“There’s no guy,” said Tim. When Saoirse raised one beautiful eyebrow, he blew out a breath in defeat. “Okay, fine. The owner of _Cor Cordium_ is —“

“Ooh, really?” squealed Saoirse. She reached out and grabbed Tim’s hand, squeezing his fingers with her own. “The pub owner? Tell me _everything.”_

 _“_ Hang on,” said Tim, with a roll of his eyes. “I was going to say, the owner is this...he’s sort of...he’s... _shit_ .” Tim took a breath. “He’s beautiful. And really nice. Talking to him was like...I don’t know. He’s smart, and he _listened_ to me when I talked, like he thought what I had to say was important. He got this look in his eye, like he wanted me to keep talking, and so...I did. Then when he talked, he’s got this voice that…” Tim trailed off and tried to contain the shiver he felt remembering Armie’s voice and the way it had sunk into his bones like he could feel the actual vibrations. He shook his head and coughed. “But obviously he’s way out of my league and—“

“Shut your mouth, Timmy-Boy,” said Saoirse, putting her finger to Tim’s lips. “Stop that immediately. He’d be lucky to have you, and you should know that.”

Tim shrugged, feeling himself blushing. “Whatever. I’m not...it’s stupid anyway, because he offered me a regular gig, and I don’t want to fuck that up.”

The sound Saoirse made could have woken people as far as Texas, it was so loud.

“Timmy!” she cried. She jumped to her feet, bouncing up and down on the mattress and grabbing at him, tugging him to his feet. She was giggling and talking rapidly, her voice making breathless music. “A regular gig, really? At _Cor Cordium_ ? That’s like...that’s the real deal, darling. You’ve _made_ it.”

Suddenly, despite his attempts to resist and maintain his composure, he was in her arms and bouncing along with her, laughing. Maybe she was right. Maybe he had made it. Armie certainly seemed to want him to keep playing, and that could lead to other things. He could start affording a place to live, for fuck’s sake, and not waste all his money on hostels or impose on his friends.

The very idea of being able to function like an actual person again, and not feel like he was constantly scrambling up the side of a cliff that was crumbling underneath his fingers, was enough to make him tip his head back and laugh. He lost his balance, grabbed at Saoirse, and they both tumbled onto the mattress, a pile of limbs and giggles.

After their laughter subsided, she snuggled in to him and sighed. “I’m proud of you, dear one,” she said. “You’re doing what most of us dream about.”

It scared him a little, to put it that way. In his experience, his dreams tended to slip away whenever he got close enough to grasp them. But he pushed the negative thoughts aside.

Armie _would_ call him, and he would get to go back to _Cor Cordium_ and play again. He could feel it.

* * *

Three days later, he wasn’t so sure. He hadn’t heard from Armie or anyone else at the pub. He was trying not to get anxious about it, since Armie hadn’t specified exactly when he would be in touch, but it was hard not to feel disappointed.

He tried to put it out of his mind. He and Saoirse were playing together at Quincy Market at lunchtime, and it was a good day. The weather was cool but sunny, and crowds had come out to enjoy the last throes of pleasant fall before winter settled in. The vibes were right — people were stopping to listen instead of sliding by — and that meant Tim’s guitar case slowly but surely filling up. He had a fleeting thought that, in spite of everything, maybe his life wasn’t so fucking bad after all.

And then Saoirse dropped the bomb.

They finished an upbeat number, one of his originals, and the crowd clapped politely and began to disperse. He picked up his water bottle and drained it. When he refocused on Saoirse, she had this _look_ on her face.

“What?” he asked. His stomach was already dropping. She looked fond and sad at the same time, and that was never a good thing.

“I love you, Timmy, you know that. Right?” she said, locking her gaze on his.

“Of course,” he said. “You don’t have to tell me.”

She smiled, and then shook her head. “I’ve got some news.”

Here it was. _Just fucking say it,_ he thought.

She bit her lip and looked away. “Greta and I are leaving,” she said softly.

 _Shit_. There it was. He had known that was coming. Most buskers didn’t stick around Boston for the winter unless they had some other means of supporting themselves. Opportunities became too scarce. It was starting to keep Tim up at night — when the restlessness of the hostel or wherever else he found to crash wasn’t already keeping him awake — and now the reminder made him a little sick to his stomach.

“She’s ready,” said Saoirse. “We’re going down to South Carolina to deal with her mom’s house. It’s a good time for us to go, anyhow.”

Tim nodded and tried to keep his features neutral. Greta’s mother had gotten sick the year before, and after she had passed away, Greta hadn’t been ready to go back to her childhood home and sort through everything, put the house on the market or rent it out or whatever she was planning to do with it. She had taken a leave of absence from Harvard Medical School and gotten a job, but the intention had always been to get a handle on things and then re-enter school once her situation had stabilized.

He had just been selfishly hoping it would take longer for her to be ready. He knew that probably made him a terrible fucking person, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“That’s great,” he said now, trying a smile. He wanted to be supportive, he really did. And they would be back, eventually. It didn’t quite work, so he ducked his head instead. “I’m glad she’s feeling better. And it’ll be good to move on, probably.”

“Yeah,” said Saoirse. “We’ll get the house ready for sale and then come back once that’s all taken care of. Maybe in the spring. Maybe longer. But I know she wants to try to return to school next fall. We’ll definitely be back by then.”

“I’m happy for you,” he said. “You won’t have to worry about the winter.”

She sighed and moved closer, resting a small hand on his shoulder. “Hey, you know, I was thinking...you could take our room at the apartment. I can tell Joey that you’re interested, he’ll give it to you if you want.”

That caused a spark of hope. One of the problems with being able to afford a place to live was that you couldn’t just come up with _rent_. You needed three times the rent to start a lease, and that was so fucking impossible Tim couldn’t even really fathom being able to do that. But if he took over Saoirse and Greta’s room...maybe he could just pay the first month, and that would give him time to get back into the swing of things.

“Maybe,” he said. “How much...how much is your rent?”

She told him, and his heart sank.

“I can’t afford _that_ ,” he said. “There’s no way.”

“You could find a roommate, split it,” she suggested.

He shook his head. “I can’t even afford _half_ of that.”

“But you’ve got the regular gig at _Cor Cordium_ ,” she said. “That might bring in enough.”

He did some quick mental math. He was working twenty hours a week at the Quick Convenient in Back Bay, which earned him a laughably small amount of cash for the stress of dealing with the inconsistent scheduling and his asshole of a boss. Even if he got paid every week what Armie had paid him for Thursday night, it wouldn’t cover the rent, his phone bill — which was quickly getting out of control since he hadn’t been paying it — food, subway rides, and all the other shit that life required.

He swallowed. Thinking about it was too scary. Every time he tried to figure out the numbers, it seemed so out of his control that he panicked and pushed it aside.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, scuffing one boot on the cobblestones. “ _Cor Cordium_ hasn’t called me back, anyway. They probably forgot.”

Which meant _Armie_ had forgotten. Forgotten _him_. For some reason, that was worse.

“Tim,” said Saoirse. Tim recognized the tone of her voice. It said _Don’t be so fucking pessimistic_ and _You’re better than this, darling._

“I know,” he said. He looked up, and this time found it within himself to manage a real smile. “Hey, listen. This is great for Greta. For both of you. Don’t worry about me.”

“I can’t help it,” she said. “I’ll keep worrying, and you had better keep in touch, let me know you’re okay.”

“I’ll manage,” he said, even though he wasn’t sure how. He shrugged, then gestured at the crowded marketplace. “Shall we play some more?”

“Of course,” she said, but she sighed as she adjusted her guitar. “You pick the song.”

“ _It’s Not Running Away,_ ” he said, naming one of hers with a sardonic grin. She rolled her eyes and began to strum the chords. He listened for a measure and then joined in. As they began to sing about things coming to an end, he tried to figure out his next steps.

He had been staying with Greta and Saoirse more frequently than he had admitted to himself, relying on them in a way that was a fucking mistake. Hadn’t he promised himself, barely six weeks earlier, that he would never again allow himself to be so dependent on another person that he would be stuck if they proved — like most did — to not care about him like he thought, to yank the rug out from under him and send him tumbling into the dirt?

After what had happened with his parents, and the fucking mess with Daniel...he had sworn that from here on out it was going to be the fucking _Timmy Chalamet Show_. No more supporting roles allowed. He had cut himself off from his old life almost completely. Except for Luca, he wanted no more of what he had been, that naive person who had let himself be duped by insincere and self-serving people.

But Saoirse wasn’t like that, he reminded himself. She was the furthest thing from insincere and self-serving there could be, the most generous person he knew. And even though he was aware that buskers tended to flee for the winter, Saoirse’s situation had seemed different. Greta had an actual job, one she went to and got a regular paycheck from and everything. He had thought that that might keep them around, keep them here, so that he could continue to have at least a couple of friends who understood him and cared about him. He had lost all the rest — or, okay, maybe he had pushed them away, fine — and suddenly found himself looking into a future in which he was truly alone.

He raised his voice in the chorus and, for the first time in a while, thought about calling his parents.

 _No fucking way_.

That was a stupid idea. The last time he had tried that, he was met with radio silence until Pauline had passed along the message that they didn’t want to hear from him.

Tim could still hardly believe that that was the case. He never _ever_ would have expected that from them, especially not from his mother. Even when everything was going down, she had seemed more regretful and sad — and maybe a little scared — than angry.

Tim wished he could say that the weekend his parents decided he wasn’t good enough to be a part of the family anymore started out well, but that would be a lie. From the moment he had walked in the door, he had known something was up.

For one thing, no one was there to greet him. The apartment was empty, and that was weird. For another, he had sent seven texts letting his parents know when he was getting in and asking if he should grab food on the way home from Port Authority or if they were planning to wait dinner or would have something around, and he never heard back. So he was already feeling a little off balance when he realized he was the only one home.

He put his things in his room and then dug around in the kitchen, thankful to find a pan of lasagna with his name on it in the refrigerator and a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the counter. Momma had been looking out for him even if she hadn’t had a chance to reply. He decided things had been crazy preparing for Papa’s party, and replying to the texts had just slipped her mind.

It was another hour before the door opened and all three of them — Momma, Papa, and Pauline — strolled in, chattering and laughing. He flipped the television off and pocketed his phone, then headed to the foyer to greet them. As soon as he appeared, the talking stopped. Papa busied himself hanging up the coats, Momma was suddenly involved in putting something in her purse. Only Pauline beamed at him with her typical big sister smile.

“Timmy! You’re here!” She launched herself at him and wrapped her slim arms around him in a hug, which he returned gratefully. Whatever was going on with his parents, at least she wasn’t a part of it. Maybe she would clue him in.

As if on cue, she turned her head and whispered into his ear. “Don’t mind them, they’ll get over it as long as you don’t let them get to you.”

Get over what? Tim racked his brain, trying to figure out what there was, exactly, for them to get over, but came up blank. His grades were good, he hadn’t gotten into any trouble, hadn’t charged up some crazy amount on their emergency credit card. He was in town for Papa’s party, and had even remembered to get Momma a Mother’s Day present to give her while he was in town.

He shrugged it off as he stepped back from Pauline and looked around her to his parents. “Bon Anniversaire, Papa,” he said. “Hi, Momma.” Papa stared at him a moment, looking him up and down and frowning.

“Merci,” he said. Then he left the foyer without saying anything else. Tim watched him go, wondering if he needed to use the bathroom or something. Why had he barely even said hello?

As soon as Papa left, Momma finally gave Tim a smile. “Hi, baby,” she said. “Did you find the lasagna?”

Was that sadness in her voice?

“Yeah, thanks. It was great.” He stepped forward to give her a hug, and she hesitated, but then gripped him tightly. “Where were you guys?” he asked. “I was a little worried when I didn’t hear from you at all today.”

“We were at dinner,” said Papa, reappearing. Momma pulled away before Tim was really ready to end the hug, and he felt the absence of her comforting embrace immediately.

“Oh,” said Tim, a little hurt that they couldn’t have waited for him.

“It’s good you’re here,” said Papa. “We wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Marc,” said Momma, “does that have to be now? We have all weekend.”

“Talk to me about what?” asked Tim. “You guys are...something is clearly up, so if it has to do with me, then...I guess I’d rather know about it now than stress about it all weekend.”

Papa nodded. “Good,” he said. “I agree. Let’s just deal with this like adults and then — we can enjoy the weekend and having you home. Let’s talk in my study.” He turned and left the foyer again, and with a glance at him that may have been reassuring if she didn’t have a pinched look around her eyes, Momma followed.

Pauline reached out and grabbed his hand and squeezed. She leaned close. “Just remember I don’t agree with them and I’m here for you,” she said. “And like I said, they’ll get over it because they love you.”

He scrunched his eyebrows together, asking her with his eyes what the fuck she was talking about, but she just kissed him on the cheek, whispered  _bonne chance_ in his ear, and pushed him down the hall.

When he entered the study, Papa was leaning up against the desk and Momma was sitting in the armchair in the corner. He stood awkwardly in the doorway, his insides clenching up.

“Okay. Tell me what’s going on. Did I do something? You guys haven’t acted like this since the time I tried to smuggle a fifth of vodka into the junior prom.” Tim attempted a giggle, but it came out sounding more like a hiccup.

After a moment of silence, Papa cleared his throat. “You had fun in Cancun?”

Tim hesitated. Cancun? That had been...well over a month ago, during spring break. Had something happened in Cancun that he was forgetting? He had gotten drunk, smoked some weed….but to his knowledge hadn’t done anything too out of the ordinary. He hadn’t been arrested or gotten himself on some video naked or anything.

“You know I did,” he said. “Was there something — I mean — what does Cancun have to do with anything?”

“We saw some photos,” said Papa. “It certainly looked like you were having fun. We just wanted to make sure it was just fun. Temporary fun. Or is there something you’d like to tell us?”

“Some photos?” asked Tim. “I sent you photos. Those photos?” He was so confused. What in the fuck was his father talking about? Temporary fun?

Papa reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He tapped around, and then turned his phone to face Tim, and Tim’s stomach dropped through his feet and smashed onto the floor.

He was looking at a photo of himself, shirtless, on the beach in Cancun. But he wasn’t the only one in the photo. No, his arms were wrapped around Daniel’s neck and their lips were locked.

Tim swallowed. Okay. So he hadn’t planned to come out to his parents like this — although he always _had_ planned to come out to them at some point — so he just needed a second to regroup, and it would be fine.

“Where...where did you get that?” he asked, ashamed at how small his voice sounded. He needed to get his shit together if he was going to have this conversation.

“Don’t worry about where we got it,” said Papa. “It was posted to Facebook. Ce n'était pas privé. It’s out there pour tout le monde, why shouldn’t I have it?”

Tim shook his head. “No, I didn’t mean...it’s okay that you do. I just wish…” he took a deep breath. “I was going to tell you. Only... _I_ wanted to be the one to tell you. I didn’t want you to just find out.”

“Tell us what?” asked Momma. He tried to find some encouragement in her voice, something that said _it’s okay, we know already, and we’re just upset you didn’t feel you could be honest._ That would be just the kind of thing his mother would say. Instead, all he heard was a bit of fear and anxiety.

Tim glanced at her, then back at his father, whose lips were turned down in a frown. This wasn’t what he had expected. His parents were so accepting, had counseled him to be tolerant and not judge people for being different. They had friends who were gay and bisexual and transexual. He would have thought that maybe they’d be surprised at his revelation that he was gay, or hurt that he hadn’t told them earlier, but he didn’t think they would be...disappointed.

He felt his chest tightening, and he rubbed a hand over his heart. “Okay, let me just…” He blew out a breath, then forced his shoulders back and lifted his chin. Best just to _say_ the fucking thing and get it over with. “Momma, Papa...I’m gay.”

As soon as he said it, he felt lighter. Like the air in the room had cleared out and he could see and think and breathe again. This would be okay. They were just upset because he had been hiding a part of himself when he had always been so open with them.

His father made a noise, a cross between a grunt and...something else. He was shaking his head, his hands clenched into fists.

“Papa?” Tim asked. “Are you...I’m not...es-tu fåché contre moi?” The lightness dissolved and he was back under the suffocating pressure. They couldn’t be mad. No fucking way. That wasn’t right. There must be something else going on.

“I’m not angry with you,” said his father. “But I think you need to think about what you’re saying. What it means.”

“It means…” Tim trailed off. “It doesn’t really mean anything other than the obvious. I’m not attracted to women. I’m attracted to men.”

Papa snorted. “You’ve been dating girls since high school,” he said, staring at the rug.

Tim shook his head. “Not really,” he said. “I mean...yeah. I did sort of try.” That wasn’t exactly right, though. He didn’t try, he just… “Or, more like, I felt like I was supposed to and I already kind of stuck out. It was more about fitting in than thinking I might be into girls.”

Papa shook his head. “It’s just a phase,” he said. “You’ll grow out of it. Et en attendant—“

“I’ll _grow out_ of it?” Tim asked. He couldn’t help the laughter that burst out of him. Papa’s head snapped up in surprise. “I’m sorry for laughing,” said Tim. “I know you’re not — this isn’t funny to you. But, Papa, I won’t...it’s not a phase. There’s nothing to _grow out_ of.”

The smile faded from Tim’s face as he looked into his father’s eyes. There had been very few moments in his life when he had felt like he couldn’t make sense of the world around him — the inputs didn’t assemble into any kind of cognizable picture — but this was one of them. He saw the polished wood of the desk and the wrinkles in his father’s dress shirt and the five o’clock shadow on his face. He saw the lines around his mouth as his lips turned further down. He saw the tension in his father’s shoulders. He felt the softness of the Persian rug under his thin socks and the way his nails were digging into his palm. He heard the ticking of the clock on the wall and a shuddering breath.

His own shuddering breath.

“Papa?” he managed.

“You’re young,” said Papa, after another long minute. “You don’t yet know how to think about the consequences of your actions and your choices. This is why you have us, to help you not make mistakes that can follow you for the rest of your life, destroy things for you.”

Tim listened. As he listened, he felt a sweat break out around his hairline, and his wrists got cold. His wrists. Did that mean his blood had stopped flowing? If the way his vision suddenly faded to gray on the edges was any indication, it was a distinct possibility.

“Mistakes?” Tim’s voice was a thin whisper. He swallowed and cleared his throat, willing his vocal cords to operate properly. It was about the photo, he told himself. It was about the photo, nothing else. “I’m sorry that photo made it online. I’m not...it’s not a big deal to me, but I can try to be more careful in the future.”

His father stood and crossed to him. Tim flinched slightly when Papa’s hands landed on his shoulders. He wanted it to be comforting. He wanted his father to pull him in for a hug, tell him it was okay. Instead, the hands squeezed sharply.

“I’m not talking about the photo,” said Papa. “I’m talking about you thinking that being gay is who you are.”

“But—”

“No. It’s not. It’s okay to be attracted to men. It’s fine. But being gay — it’s not the life you should have.”

Tim could see it now. It wasn’t anger that was causing the strain in his father’s eyes. It was concern. He felt a momentary relief, and placed his hands on his father’s chest.

“Papa,” Tim said, trying to smile. “It’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

“You will,” said his father, stepping away and dropping his hands to his side. “Because you’re going to forget about this silly notion. Indulge the side of you that is attracted to women instead. Get yourself a nice girlfriend. Tu vas tout oublier.”

Tim’s mouth dropped open. “ _Forget_ about it? That’s not...how it works,” he said. “You know that, Papa. This isn’t — it’s not a new thing. I’ve been dating boys for years. I’m not confused or experimenting or being... _silly_. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, I just…”

“Just try.” Momma spoke up from the corner, and Tim looked at her in surprise. He had almost forgotten she was there, too. She was being uncharacteristically quiet, which told him this was more about his father than about her. And yet…

“There isn’t anything to _try,_ Momma,” he said, pushing his lips into a halting smile. “But...you’ll like Daniel. The boy in the photo? He’s not just a fling. He’s special. He’s a drummer, and we play in this band—”

“Enough,” said Papa sharply. Tim whipped his head back around.

“Enough of what?” asked Tim.

“This is the way it has to be.” Papa paced to the window, staring out into the night. “I can’t — we won’t have you ruining your life over some boy you met in college. Things are more...intense in college. Break up with him, finish out your degree, and then we can talk again.”

Tim stared at his father’s back. He wasn’t even sure what his father was asking him to do, other than break up with Daniel, which he had no intention of doing.

“Papa, I don’t know what there is to talk about. I told you, I’m gay. I’m not bisexual, I’m not going through a phase, it’s not because it’s intense or whatever other shit—”

“Timothée, language—”

“ — that you are making up because you don’t like that I’m gay. I thought you were...tolerant. You always taught me not to judge people. I don’t get why you’re suddenly so—”

“Parce qu'ils ne sont pas mon fils!” _Because they aren't my son._  His father turned and fastened him with a focused gaze. “I won’t accept that sort of life for _you_. It’s dangerous. It’s a struggle you don’t deserve.”

Tim stared right back. He could feel his heart beating faster, knowing he was going to meet his father toe to toe. This wasn’t a fight he could afford to lose. “It’s not a struggle I’m choosing,” he said quietly. “But it’s one I accept. And it’s one you’re going to have to accept as well.”

They stared at each other, neither moving, neither blinking. Then his father’s jaw tightened and he nodded.

“Fine,” he said. ““You think you know more than we do about what’s best for you, then by all means. You make all the decisions.”

“I…” Tim floundered a moment. “Well. It is my life, after all.”

“And since it’s your life, you can take over. Tout. Everything. You have one more year of school left, you can pay for it.”

“I can...wait a second. Are you saying that you won’t pay for school anymore if I’m gay?” Tim took a step forward, and his father shrugged.

“I’m saying that if you won’t take our guidance, then you won’t take our money, either.” His father’s voice had evened out into that cool, faked nonchalance that he used whenever he was trying to make a point.

Tim shook his head. “Papa, I understand this is hard for you. And I’m sorry. But you’re not going to take school away. That makes no sense.”

But his father wasn’t quite done. “I will. It’s just a phone call, and tuition for future terms is canceled. Another thing. Until you decide to grow up — or the world forces it upon you — I don’t want to you here.”

“You — what?” Tim thought he had been shocked several times during this fucking nonsense conversation, but this was a whole new level. “You don’t want me _here_?”

“We don’t want to see you, or talk to you. We won’t watch you suffer because you’re being stubborn and refusing to listen to us.”

He looked over at his mother. She was staring at her hands, her lips pressed together and her shoulders hunched. Normally, that would have made him go to her, put his arms around her, bump his forehead against hers and tell her he loved her until she smiled.

But now...now all he could see was that she wasn’t speaking up on his behalf. That she wasn’t stopping his father from issuing these ridiculous ultimatums. That she wasn’t disagreeing with the idea that if he was going to continue being his fucking self, he was no longer welcome in his own home.

He turned back to his father. “You’re bluffing,” he said. “You taught me to stand up for myself. To not be ashamed of who I am. To go after what I want. Well...I’m doing all of that.”

“I’m not bluffing,” said Papa. “You can use the credit card to get your bus ticket back to Boston, and some supplies, if you’d like. I’ll cancel it on Monday.”

In that moment, Tim knew he had only one choice. He straightened his shoulders and raised an eyebrow at his father. He knew he had grown another couple of inches, and was taller than the man who had raised him. He used that to his advantage.

“I’ll be gone in five minutes,” said Tim. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket, removed the credit card in question, and tossed it at his father’s feet. It landed on his left shoe with a small but satisfying _thwack_. “I don’t need your fucking credit card. Go ahead and cancel it tonight.”

He turned and spared one more look to his mother. She was biting her bottom lip and her eyes were moist. He couldn’t quite process that, because it didn’t _fit_ with everything he knew about her. He couldn’t figure out why she was going along with this insanity. But he’d call her once he got back to Boston, talk things through. Something must have happened, because there was no other explanation.

Giving his father one last look, he said, “Call me when you’ve come to your fucking senses. And Happy fucking Birthday.” Then he turned and walked out of the study.

He had gone upstairs, grabbed his things, and said goodbye to Pauline. She promised to talk to them, but when he pressed her for information, she had only shrugged.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” she said. “A friend of theirs sent them the photo of you and Daniel. I don’t know when. Papa asked me about it at dinner. I had to admit to them that I knew, but that it wasn’t my secret to tell.”

“They’ve never been like this,” he said. “For anything.”

“I know,” she said. “I’ll try to figure it out. Papa said something about how he wasn’t going to go through that again.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” asked Tim.

Pauline shook her head. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll investigate. Go back to school, see Daniel, finish your exams. You can come visit me in Paris if you want. You’ll be back home and everyone will apologize before you know it. They love you.”

“Yeah. I could tell,” said Tim.

He didn’t stumble until he was in the hallway outside the apartment. He stopped by the elevator, pressing a hand to the wall, and trying to catch his breath. His throat was clogged and swollen, and his chest had tightened. He didn’t really think his father would follow through on his threats. Like Pauline had said, something else was going on.

But he’d never seen that look on his father’s — or his mother’s — face before. He’d never suspected that they would push him away. Over anything, let alone something like this.

When he had composed himself as best he could, he had taken the elevator down to the first floor, said goodbye to the doorman, and gotten in a cab to go back to Port Authority. At the time, he was sure Pauline had been right. His parents would come around.

Now, he knew that was wishful thinking. He had finished his exams and then got the notice that his summer term tuition had been canceled. He had moved in with Daniel and some of Daniel’s friends for the summer and let himself be lulled into the dream that this would all resolve before the fall term began. But he hadn’t spoken to his parents since. He had left several messages, but gotten nothing in return other than Pauline telling him it might take some time.

At this stage, six months later, he had finally resigned himself to the truth. That part of his life was over, had ended last May. Then the part of his life that included Daniel, and school, had ended.

Tim shook himself out of his memories. He rolled his feet on the cobblestones and looked at the bright blue sky and felt the quickly cooling breeze. He glanced over at Saoirse as they broke into the final chorus, and she smiled at him. He couldn’t bring himself to give her more than a wink in return. She was moving away, and it looked like another chapter in his life was ending, seemingly just after it had begun.

He wasn’t entirely sure what the next one would hold, but things had to get better from here. They simply _had_ to. After all, this was the _Timmy Chalamet Show_. He got to make the decisions, and he’d figure something out.

* * *

Later that night, after turning down another night at Saoirse’s — he had to get used to not having that to fall back on, after all — Tim had set up on a corner by the Copley Square T station. It was almost too cold to be playing outside, but he had his fingerless gloves and extra layers. He figured that, if Saoirse and Greta were leaving town, he needed to be bringing in more cash on a regular basis if he was ever going to be able to afford to live somewhere permanently. He hadn’t heard from Armie or _Cor Cordium_ so he had to be diligent in going out and getting it on his own.

After an hour, however, he started to think it was a mistake. It was getting later, and colder, and there weren’t as many pedestrians as he had hoped, even for a Sunday night. He had made the decision that he was going to pack it in after only one more hour, no matter how little he had made, and find a place to crash for the night. There was an all-night cafe on Boylston that usually didn’t bother him if he settled into a booth in the corner with a notebook, ordered a two-dollar plate of fries, and left a decent tip. They even let him nap there.

He was in a melancholy mood, so he was playing from his set of melancholy songs. In order to stave off the thoughts of the cold or the long night ahead of him, he closed his eyes and tried to lose himself in the music, focusing on the emotions of the song rather than the emotions of the moment. He was playing for himself, rather than an audience, since there wasn’t anyone around to listen.

When he finished the song, he was startled to hear the sound of clapping — at first one set of hands and then a handful. He opened his eyes and saw that he did, in fact, have an audience. They seemed to have come from a party, since they were all dressed in gown and tuxes.

He cleared his throat. “Thank you,” he said, smiling. If he could charm them a little, maybe they’d stay, listen to a few more, and give him a tip. They looked like they could afford it. They also looked like they were more than a little drunk, which could cut both ways. Sometimes drunk people tipped _more_ , and sometimes they forgot entirely.

He scanned the group, trying to decide what to say and what to play next, when he spotted a beautiful, familiar face. _Armie._ Tim couldn’t help the huge grin that broke out on his face.

“Hey,” Tim said.

“Hey,” said Armie.

 _No fucking way,_ thought Tim. He tried to assemble his thoughts enough to figure out how to ask Armie about further gigs without seeming desperate, but was struggling to remember words as Armie just grinned at him, his blue eyes sparkling under the streetlight. The man was wearing a fucking _tuxedo_ , and if he had looked hot in jeans and boots, _this_ was another level entirely.

He nearly jumped when one of the women said, “That was beautiful. Play something else?”

 _Right_ , he thought. _You’re working, keep it together_. “Of course,” he said. “You folks coming from a party or something?”

“Charity dinner,” said one of the men.

“What charity?” asked Tim. He didn’t actually care, he was just making conversation while he gauged the mood and tried to think of what to play next, but he seemed to have stumped the man who had spoken. His mouth opened and closed a few times, and Tim nearly laughed at the lost expression on his face.

But Armie spoke up. “Adult literacy,” he said. “To raise money to support the programs offered at schools and libraries in the area.”

Tim let his gaze drift back over to Armie. It wasn’t difficult. What was difficult was looking _away_.

“Good cause,” said Tim, with a smile.

“Play the one you ended the first set with,” said Armie. “The one about the abandoned train tracks.”

Tim blinked at Armie, feeling his chest expand with something like joy. Armie had been _listening_ to him, just like he had thought. The man had listened to him playing closely enough to remember fucking _lyrics_. And what order he had played what songs in what set.

“Lost Direction,” he said, trying to stay cool. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Wait a second,” said one of the men, holding up a hand. “Armie, do you know him?”

Armie nodded. Did he look proud of that? This was getting better by the second. “This is Timothée Chalamet. He plays at _Cor Cordium_.”

 _He_ plays  _at Cor Cordium_ , thought Tim. _Plays._ Not played, not has played, but _plays_ , as in “is playing.” Which meant that Armie _did_ still intend for him to come back. That hadn’t just been a dream, and he hadn’t forgotten.

“Play something,” said the first woman again, pulling Tim’s attention from Armie and the revelation that maybe he had some prospects after all. “Please.”

Tim nodded, then took a breath. Armie had requested _Lost Direction_ , he would play _Lost Direction._ He began to sing.

 

_Sometimes the darkness comes out to play_

_Sometimes you just want to run away_

_Sometimes a change is needed_

_Sometimes_

 

To Tim’s surprise, other pedestrians stopped to listen. It had to be because of the fact that Armie’s group made him look like something worth stopping for. But he was going to milk this for all it was worth. He raised his voice at the chorus.

 

_When you’ve lost direction_

_And your track’s overgrown_

_Just find a memory that can_

_Show you the way back home_

 

When he was done, there was another round of applause, and someone whistled. Tim glanced over at Armie. A pretty woman was leaning in to whisper in his ear, but he was beaming at Tim, and their eyes locked. Tim felt the warm glow that came with knowing he had pleased the most important member of his audience — the one who could give him a job.

Suddenly, Armie stepped forward, his long legs eating up the space between them, waving a handful of bills in the air. With a wink at Tim, he turned towards the crowd.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, let’s not forget to thank Mr. Chalamet for his performance.” With a grand flourish, he dropped the cash into the guitar case. Tim tried not to ogle it and make it obvious that people didn’t do that every time he sang. How much was in that wad, anyway? There was a twenty on the outside, and it looked like it contained at least seven or eight bills.

Before Tim knew what was happening, people were digging into their bags and pockets and tossing bills — not change, bills — into his case. He saw lots of tens and a few more twenties, and this time he couldn’t keep the shock off of his face. This was...he was going to be able to stay in a hostel for a week — no, for _two fucking weeks_ — with what was in his case. Or he could pay down his phone bill. Or save it for part of a security deposit.

He looked up, and found Armie’s eyes. The man was looking extremely satisfied with the crowd, and pleased with Tim. He mouthed a quick “thank you,” and Armie merely nodded.

Then he was standing at Tim’s side and his long arm was wrapped around Tim’s back, clutching at his opposite shoulder and holding him tightly against Armie’s side. The move surprised Tim, but his body seemed to expect it, and he felt himself relax easily against Armie even as his stomach did a long, slow roll.

Armie was talking to the audience. “If you want more Timothée, he’ll be playing regularly at _Cor Cordium_ pub in Davis Square. Check the website for details soon.”

Tim’s heart beat hard, twice in a row. It _was_ happening. He had a regular gig. Unless he had tripped and hit his head and this was all some hallucination.

“What’s the matter?” asked Armie, his brows drawing together, looking concerned. “Should I not have told them you’re playing for me? I know we haven’t figured out the details. I wish Nick hadn’t left early, he wouldn’t delay calling you if he had heard you tonight.”

“Are you real?” asked Tim, before he could stop himself. _Shit,_ he hadn’t meant to say that out loud, He quickly stepped out of the circle of the other man’s arm and looked around, grateful that the crowd seemed to have mostly dispersed. He licked his lips and glanced back at Armie. What had he asked? Right, about the gig. _Fuck fuck fuck._ He didn’t want Armie to think he didn’t _want_ to keep playing at the pub. “I mean...thanks. And you’re fine. I already said I was in, right?”

“Armie.” Both Tim and Armie turned in the direction of the speaker. The woman who had been whispering to Armie earlier had folded her arms across her chest and was looking annoyed.

“Right. We should go,” said Armie. He moved away from Tim and back to the woman’s side. They looked… “Tim, this is my girlfriend, Liz. Liz, Tim Chalamet.”

“Elizabeth,” said the woman. She smiled, but her eyes stayed annoyed and her arms stayed folded.

_Girlfriend._

“Girlfriend. Of course. Nice to meet you,” said Tim. Of course Armie had a girlfriend. Of course he was straight. _Of course_ he wasn’t interested in Tim, other than as a performer. Tim didn’t know why he was so surprised, or why he felt disappointment lancing through him. He had already decided that Armie was out of his league and that it was stupid to even think about having a crush on his boss anyway. It didn’t matter. He smiled at Liz/Elizabeth. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

“Will you?” she asked. Tim blinked at the icy note in her voice.

“At the pub,” said Tim, by way of explanation.

Armie was beginning to look highly amused, but he cleared his throat and jumped in. “You going to stay out here? It’s supposed to get colder.”

Tim grinned at him. “Are you kidding? After this, there’s no need.” He gestured at the guitar case, where the cash was rustling in the light breeze. “I’m going to pack it in and get myself some dinner.”

More likely he would save the money until the next day, since he had grabbed a granola bar before setting up for the evening, but he didn’t want Armie to know that. He crouched down and collected that cash. Quickly, before Armie could leave, he peeled off a handful of bills — he thought that was about right — and held it out to Armie.

“Here,” he said. “I think this is what you put in”

Armie frowned at him. “Why are you trying to give it back?” he asked.

“You seeded the pot,” said Tim. He shrugged. “And you paid me the other night, and will pay me again. Not to mention the tips I got and will get.” It was obvious to him. He didn’t want to take Armie’s money — which felt kind of like taking charity — not when they were going to have an ongoing business relationship.

But Armie shook his head and didn’t move to take back the cash. “Yeah, and I’m giving you that for turning my entire night around. I was having a fucking crappy evening until I heard you playing. Keep it.”

Tim sucked in a breath. That couldn’t be true. It was just something Armie was saying. And yet… “You sure?” he asked.

“I’m sure.” Armie shrugged.

Tim smiled. He could tell that arguing wasn’t going to help, so he decided to just let it go. “Then I think dinner will also include a beer. Thanks.”

He packed up his guitar and shouldered his bags. Armie was still lingering for some reason, but Tim could tell that Liz/Elizabeth was getting anxious to leave by the way she was tugging at Armie’s sleeve. He nearly laughed at how immovable Armie was proving to be, both literally and metaphorically. It was intriguing.

“Where’s home?” Armie asked, after a moment. “We could give you a ride.”

 _Fuck_. Tim shook his head. “It’s just a few stops on the T,” he lied. Or almost lied. One of those all-night cafés was a few stops down the Green Line.

“You’re carrying a lot of cash,” said Armie.

“It’s fine, I promise,” said Tim. He glanced at Liz, then what Armie had said sunk in. Was Armie _worried_ about him? He brushed it away and smiled. “You guys have a good night.”

He gave a little awkward wave and then turned to the subway station.

He hadn’t really been planning to take the T to his next destination, but he had just told Armie he was riding it, and he _did_ have extra cash, so he clattered down the steps. He tapped his Charlie card and pushed through the turnstile just as a C train was roaring into the station. As he settled onto a plastic center-facing seat, his duffle tucked under his legs and the guitar nestled between them, he let himself _feel_ the impact of the past half hour.

Saoirse and Greta were leaving, sure, and that sucked. But he had a gig, a real one, at a real venue. And maybe Armie wasn’t interested in him, not like he had maybe started to be interested in Armie, but...it seemed like maybe they could be friends. Armie seemed to like him, genuinely. _Cor Cordium_ could be a place he hung out, even if he wasn’t playing. That sense of belonging he had felt when he first walked in, the way playing there had seemed so natural, the way Armie seemed to feel so easy with him....maybe he wouldn’t be totally alone after all.

* * *

_Tim blinked up at the ceiling of the hotel suite, and then sat up straight._

_That was it, he realized. Maybe he didn’t belong with his family. Maybe he didn’t belong at Berklee. He definitely didn’t fucking belong with Daniel, or living on the streets._

_He belonged at_ Cor Cordium. _He belonged with Armie._

 _With a sense of purpose, he pushed himself to his feet._ That _was his story. Finding his place, fighting for it, winning it. Well, he had found it. He was fighting for it. And he was going to win it._

 _He just had to figure out_ how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the crappy French. [blushes and ducks the flying tomatoes]


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Tim tries to do what he knows he needs to do, he thinks back on the beginning of his spiral downwards, the one that would end with Armie rescuing him from the floor of the subway station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, loves.
> 
> I am emerging from a work tornado to post this today because you've all been so very patient, for which I am eternally grateful. The January to May timeframe is a beast for me. My side jobs become busier, my full time job becomes busier, and I end up feeling like I need to get control of my life better than I have been so try to devote time to that as well. One of my obligations ended this past weekend, however, so...yay!
> 
> I ended up cutting this chapter in half, in part because my little heart was having trouble keeping it long, and in part because I hit over 5000 words and realized that maybe it would be better to give you two than one long one that would take me forever (an even longer forever, sorry) to post. It turns out that, despite my intentions, the timeline does seem to be mirrored chapter by chapter so far. That's not intentional, but we'll see how it plays out. I know where we're headed and I can't wait to take you there.
> 
> If you're looking for a soundtrack for this chapter, throw on some Muse. I listened to Absolution on repeat so...

****

**Chapter 4**

_With a renewed sense of purpose, Tim strode towards the door of the suite._

_Having decided that what he wanted so desperately in the moment was not just a fleeting fantasy or a crutch of some sort, but was actually exactly what he was supposed to have, Tim felt more ready to walk away. After all, if he was meant to be with Armie —_

_He was meant to be with Armie. He knew it. He_ felt _it. Armie had seemed so sure of himself last night, talking about forever and having no questions, and Tim didn’t really have questions, not about Armie, his questions were all wrapped up in trying to be who he was and not just some extension of or accessory to another person, no matter how amazing that person was._

Fuck. Stop, _he told himself, shaking his head._ Keep focused. You belong with Armie.

 _— if he was meant to be with Armie, if that was truly his place in this world, then he would find his way back there. Eventually. (No, not_ eventually _. Fuck, eventually sounded like a long-ass time and Tim wasn’t that patient as a rule.) He just had to find a way to feel like he wasn’t being a burden on Armie. To know that Armie wanted to be with him because of_ him _and not because he felt some obligation or was wrapped up in being a fucking savior or something._

 _Even though Armie had said that wasn’t the case, and Tim_ knew _he thought he was telling the truth...it would be better all around if Tim didn’t ever have to question it. Maybe he was getting better at appreciating his own worth, but — let’s face it — he still had issues with that._

_Tim reached the door and stretched a hand towards the door handle, then hesitated._

_He still had issues with that because he had spent the past several months falling farther and farther down the black hole of worthlessness. He failed at everything he touched, couldn’t keep his shit together or stand on his own two feet without help. It hadn’t even taken very fucking long for it to happen. Once Saoirse and Greta had left, his state had devolved quickly. He had underestimated exactly how much he had needed a free, safe, comfortable place to sleep, even just a couple of nights a week. He had underestimated how much Saoirse’s friendship and companionship had been helping him stay emotionally afloat. Once all that was gone…_

_...it was just a matter of time before everything fell apart, piece by fucking piece._

_Tim shuddered, thinking back over the months following his first night at_ Cor Cordium _and before Armie swooped in and scooped him off the grimy tiles of the Downtown Crossing tunnels._

* * *

The worst thing about staying in a shelter is the... _guilt_.

The people staying there, for the most part, were good people who were just having a hard time, just like Tim. He hadn’t realized this before he became a frequent resident himself, but the majority of the population who stayed in the city’s homeless shelters were temporarily homeless. These were people who, like him, couldn’t quite believe the circumstances they had found themselves in, or how quickly it could happen.

Sure, some of them were there because of drinking problems, or drugs. Some had mental health issues that weren't being effectively treated. But most were just trying and not quite making it. They had hit a bad patch and not had anyone to help them. They were just like him. Just like _him_.

So why was it, knowing that he was surrounded by people who were probably thinking and feeling mostly the same things that he was thinking and feeling, that Tim was fucking _afraid_ of them? Why was he curled around his guitar case, clutching it tightly as he huddled with it under the scratchy wool blanket on the thin mattress? Why was his messenger bag tucked under his hip, its strap wrapped around his thigh? Why had he transferred his wallet and phone to his front pockets?

Because he was an asshole, and a fucking pathetic excuse for a man, that’s why.

 _Guilt_.

On the other hand, Tim thought, worse even than the guilt was the fact that he felt like he was stripped of all privacy and that his failures were on display for the entire world to see. It started with standing in the long line outside and waiting for the doors to open and be checked in, watching pedestrians cross the street to avoid you and cast their eyes to the side rather than look you in the face, like you were a fucking monster and not a human being.

Then there were all the questions the intake volunteers asked.

_No, I haven't had anything to drink today._

_No, I'm not taking any illegal drugs. I don't do that._ (Except occasionally pot but not lately.)

_Yes, I currently have a job. Two, actually._

_No, I'm not on any prescription medications._

_I don't have any health conditions you need to be aware of._

_My emergency contact is my sister, but she lives in Europe._

Some places asked fewer questions, but Tim always found himself resisting the urge to explain himself and how he had ended up there. _This isn’t me,_ he wanted to tell them. _This is temporary. I’m working it out._

He didn’t say it because they didn’t care. Or maybe because he wasn’t sure if _he_ even believed it.

Once that was done, he had to endure the humility of lining up to use the shower facilities. He generally tried to be as quick as possible, which meant he hadn’t had a truly hot shower or one that lasted more than three minutes in _weeks_. He could have stayed longer; they didn’t enforce a time limit unless someone was excessive, but he felt the need to _not_ be naked in front of seven other men any longer than he could help it.

Finally, he checked his duffle in at the lockers. He didn’t much trust the system — he had seen how lax the staff was in the mornings about checking claim tickets — but they wouldn’t let him bring his duffle into the sleeping area. He was lucky when they let him take the guitar, and that was only because he begged. Sometimes they made him hand it over and, on those nights, he was the first person awake so that he could be first in line to claim it again.

_What would he do without his guitar, if it got stolen?_

After the bagged meal — tonight had been a turkey sandwich and an apple — there wasn’t anything to do but hang out in your bed. Sometimes people talked, or played cards. Once he had been asked to play something on his guitar, but the staff had told him to stop because not everyone wanted the music. Most of the time Tim pulled out his notebook, put in his headphones, and tried to work, but it was difficult to tune out the activity around him. It was almost — _almost_ — a relief when it was time for lights out.

That had been nearly forty-five minutes ago. Tim tried to close his eyes, but they seemed to be stuck open, as he stared at the slightly snoring form in the bed next to his. He had ended up with one in the middle of the massive room, twelfth in a row of twenty-four single beds spaced approximately eight inches apart. His row was fourth of seven, and the head of his bed was nearly touching the foot of the bed in the next row, so that if the guy _in_ that bed moved around there was a chance Tim might get kicked in the head.

He inched further down his mattress at the thought, even though it meant his own feet would hang off of the end if he stretched out.

It wasn’t even fully dark in the room — there were dim lights on, in case someone had to get up in the middle of the night. The low light made him feel even more on display, because he couldn’t even go unnoticed by keeping statue-still and using the darkness as cover. Tim had never thought he — a kid who had had night terrors and had slept with a nightlight until he went to college — would be wishing so hard for complete darkness.

There were a lot of things he had never thought he would be doing, and yet...here he was.

After some deliberate breathing, he managed to close his eyes and keep them closed. Now that he wasn’t looking, the sounds of the room became crisper. He could hear the breathing of the hundred and sixty eight men around him, some snoring, some wheezing. Anytime someone coughed, Tim jumped and squeezed his guitar closer.

He had to get some sleep. He _had_ to. He had a shift at the Quick Convenient in the morning, and then in the afternoon he was finally going back to _Cor Cordium_. It was why he was at the shelter tonight, even though he hated it, and not trying to nap outside or in coffee shops. He needed actual sleep, in order to not fuck up this first real chance he was getting.

Also, now, at the end of October, it was truly getting cold at night. He had gone to Luca’s last week and switched out his clothes for his winter gear — and avoided Luca’s questions about where he was living — but it really was too cold to sleep outside with any comfort anymore. Not that sleeping outside had ever been comfortable, but at least he could find someplace dark to hide, in the Common or the Gardens, or up in Cambridge around the universities. It was time for him to get over himself and just fucking deal with the fact that he slept in shelters now.

Once _Cor Cordium_ picked up, maybe he could afford hostels again more regularly. But since the busking was slowing down as well...for now this was what it was.

Tim thought about the next night, what it would be like. He’d get to see Armie again, at least. He wondered if this time he would be more level-headed about it. After all, now he knew Armie’s situation, and that there was officially no possibility of any interest between them. It was better that way. He could focus on the job.

It seemed like a good job, too. It wasn’t just Armie. That other guy, Nick, had seemed decent when he called to make arrangements. He had explained that Sunday’s crowds might be less attentive than Thursday’s had been, that the tips might not be as good, but that if it worked out they could talk about moving him to another night.

Tim would take whatever they gave him, and he said as much. _I don’t care if it makes me sound desperate,_ he had said. _I just want to play._ Nick had laughed and told him he couldn’t wait to meet him in person.

He already had his set list prepared, and was looking forward to having an actual dinner. Those pulled pork nachos had been on his mind recently as he got by on the McDonald’s dollar menu and the leftovers from the warming trays at the Quick Convenient. When you’ve choked down a lukewarm hot dog that is considered too old to sell by a fucking _convenience_ store run by a stingy asshole...you start dreaming of better meals.

It was going to go well. He’d be fine. He’d get nervous again, but just like last time, it would work out. He decided that the next day, after work and before going to the pub, he’d book a room at a hostel early with what was almost the last of his cash. That way he’d have a place to sleep after the gig, since the shelter check-in was between five and seven, and the lines were starting to get much longer and start earlier in the day. Once he played, he’d get paid and be okay for another week.

Maybe Armie would come outside and smoke with him again. Tim actually smiled and relaxed a bit at the thought.

Okay, it was time to get to sleep for fucking real now. No one was moving around, he had almost gotten used to the incessant coughing around him, and it was finally warm enough under the blanket. He had stopped feeling the sharp edges of the guitar case pressed against his chest and thighs. He tried some more deep breathing, and then began to recite song lyrics. After getting through _Abbey Road_ and half of _Nevermind_ , he must have drifted off.

He woke up with the words _I’m so lonely, that’s okay, I shaved my head and I’m not sad_ running through his head. His guitar was still in his arms, his messenger bag was still tucked under his hip, and aside from a crick in his neck and a line on his cheek from the case...he did feel okay, and not sad, for the first time in a while.

He sat up and shoved his hair off of his forehead, yawning. The man in the bed next to him scratched at his beard and smiled.

“Morning, kid,” he said, his voice softer than Tim had expected, given the guy’s bulk. The man gestured at the guitar case. “You play?”

Tim hesitated, then nodded. “I do,” he said.

“You any good?”

After a second, Tim smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

When Tim made his way up to Davis Square that afternoon, he was trying not to let the stress get to him. It had been a shitty day so far, even though it had started out feeling okay. He had been on time for work, but his boss was in a mood and got mad when Tim said he couldn’t work an extra shift, and then made him clean the restrooms. On top of that, he had called around and there was no availability at any of the hostels he was able to afford. Which meant he was headed for a long, cold night. Even if he managed to leave _Cor Cordium_ and make it back to the shelter before check-in, he was pretty sure they wouldn’t have any beds left.

He tried not to think about it. He’d deal with it when it came. Maybe spend some time in the 24-hour grocery store in Porter Square and then find a diner. He wouldn’t get to sleep, but he could be inside.

Tim stood outside _Cor Cordium_ , looking up at the sign. He needed to let that all go, and focus on what he was about to do. He had been looking forward to this. He wasn’t going to let some other shit ruin it for him. He forced a smile onto his face, thought about sitting on that stage and playing for the crowd, the feel of the guitar strings sliding under the fingers of his left hand. He imagined that beat of silence that came after he had finished a song and before the audience responded, that moment where the memory of his music lingered on the edge of possibility. The smile became real. He took a deep breath and entered the pub, feeling better than he had all day.

Once inside, he looked around and grinned when he saw Armie, standing and waving from a corner table. Ignoring the way his heart sped up at the sight of the man, he made his way over.

“Hey,” he said, when he reached the table. Armie was sitting with another guy, this one with dark hair, who was looking him over curiously.

“Hey,” said Armie, grinning back. “You get home okay the other night with all that cash? I wish you had let us give you a ride.”

Surprised that Armie even remembered having been worried, Tim took a moment to compose himself as he set down his things. “Safe and sound,” he said. “See? You worry too much.” He remembered that Armie had been a little tipsy that evening, and decided to turn the question around. He kept his tone light and teasing. “What about you? You seemed...like you were enjoying yourself a quite a bit.”

“Is that your way of accusing me of being drunk?” asked Armie. But he was playing at extreme offense, his hand on his heart in dramatic fashion, so Tim knew he was taking the question as intended.

“If the shoe fits…” said Tim. He felt like he should at least acknowledge the more important part of that evening, the part where Armie had motivated the crowd to give him more cash than he had ever seen for one performance. He dropped his smile. “Seriously, though, that was awesome, what you did.”

Armie waved his hand in the air. “Just making sure you get the respect you deserve.”

Suddenly, the other man extended his hand. “Hi there,” he said. “You must be Timothée. I’m Nick.”

Tim nearly jumped, having completely forgotten that they weren’t alone. _Nick_. Nick was the booking manager, the one who had called him and set up the gigs. He definitely needed to make the right impression.

“Nick, the master of music,” he said, grasping Nick’s hand firmly. “Thank you for this opportunity as well.”

“Have a seat,” said Armie. He kicked at the chair next to him so that it slid out from under the table. “Let’s get you lunch. What would you like?”

Tim didn’t even have to think about it. “I’ve been dreaming about those nachos,” he said.

“Sure thing.”

“I got it,” said Nick, standing up. “What about a drink?” He paused. “Are you old enough to drink?”

 _Shit_. He had been hoping they wouldn’t ask. If they did decide not to let him, it wasn’t a big deal, but he was prepared anyhow.

“Yeah,” he said. He pulled out his wallet and flipped it open, revealing his — fake, but high quality — New York drivers license. Nick squinted at it.

“This says you’re twenty-two. That true?”

Tim put on his most charming smirk. “If that’s what it says.”

Nick glanced at Armie, who shrugged. “Get him a Harpoon.”

“Will do,” said Nick, with a roll of his eyes. Tim smiled. They weren’t going to push it. But then Armie spoke up again.

“Are you really twenty-two?” asked Armie. “I’m not going to tell anyone.”

Tim thought about whether to lie or to be honest. For some reason, he wanted to be honest with Armie. He knew he would already have to hide a lot about his life from the man, and...he just needed some things to be truthful.

“Twenty,” he said. “I’ll be twenty-one in December, if that helps.”

“You’ve got an excellent fake there,” said Armie, gesturing at his wallet.

“You spotted it,” Tim said. Most didn’t, and the fact that Armie had said something about his attention to detail.

“I guessed,” said Armie. “Based on your responses. So...twenty. No college?”

 _More questions._ Before he could consciously decide which direction to go with his answer, he found himself talking.

“No. It didn’t...it wasn’t for me.” It was just because he didn’t have anyone to _talk_ to these days that he was feeling this need to talk to Armie, he told himself. He was lonely, and needed at least one fucking friend. If Armie judged him for being himself, then they weren’t meant to be friends. But if there was a chance—

“It wasn’t for me, either,” said Armie, interrupting Tim’s thoughts.

Tim looked up. _It wasn’t for me either_. Meaning...Armie hadn’t gone to college. “Really?” he asked, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. From their conversations so far, Tim would have expected him to have had more formal education. Maybe even business school.

Armie shrugged, looking completely comfortable with the conversation. “Going to college would have meant giving in to what my family wanted. I needed to make my own decisions, live my own life. So...I couldn’t afford it on my own.” He cleared his throat, and Tim saw that maybe that comfort was a façade.

“Yeah, that’s...actually pretty close to my story, too,” said Tim. He glanced around at the pub, wondering how someone who couldn’t afford to go to college could afford to start a business. He decided to ask. It was just basic curiosity. Armie didn’t have to answer if he didn’t want to. “But...you own this place. How did you manage that?”

“Long story,” said Armie. ”So does that mean you aren’t close to your family?”

Tim hesitated and then shook his head. He didn’t want to get into details, but...he felt like he needed to make this connection with the other man. Maybe needed it more than he needed complete privacy. “Not anymore,” he said. “I haven’t spoken with them in a while.”

“Me too,” said Armie.

Tim looked up at him, and smiled. In that moment, he felt...hope? Peace? He couldn’t quite explain it. But if someone who had something like that in common with him had made it into the success he was at...maybe twenty-five or twenty-seven? — then maybe Tim wasn’t crazy for thinking he didn’t need his family. Or anyone else.

Nick returned to the table with the beers, breaking into what was maybe too long of a silence in which he and Armie were just smiling at each other. Tim picked up the mug and held it towards Armie.

“Here’s to going our own way,” he said.

“I’ll drink to that,” said Armie.

“Did I miss something?” asked Nick.

Armie kept smiling, and Tim kept smiling back, like someone had shot him up with a drug. If that was what had happened...he’d take another dose in a second.

His sets went even better than the first night, if that was possible. People were a little more chill, so he mostly stuck to his own material, but they didn’t even seem annoyed that he was playing over the football, and in Boston that was a huge compliment. He was packing up his things when Armie appeared at his side.

“Do you have somewhere you need to be, or can you hang around for a while?” he asked.

Tim looked up at Armie, at the blue eyes framed by impossibly long lashes, at the _hope_ he saw there, and his pulse spiked. _Not a big deal,_ he told himself. The guy was asking him to hang around, but that didn’t _mean_ anything. Or maybe it meant that Armie genuinely liked talking to him. That he wanted to be friends.

The _yes I’d love to stay_ got caught in Tim’s throat as he remembered his situation. He glanced at his phone. It was twenty after six. If he hurried, he might just be able to make check-in cut-off. Of course, the shelter would probably be full anyway, and then he’d have missed out on this opportunity.

If he stayed...he could _stay_. Have a place to be for a while, at least. Not be expected to buy anything or clear a table for a paying customer, until maybe two in the morning. The longer that he could stay, the better.

Tim made up his mind. What had Armie asked him? Right, whether he had anywhere he needed to be. He nearly laughed at that. “Not especially,” he said. “I can stay.”

“If you do have to go, that’s fine,” said Armie quickly. Was he changing his mind?

“I don’t,” said Tim, as firmly as he could.

“Good,” said Armie. “Have a seat at the bar, let me get you some dinner.”

Tim couldn’t help the small smile as he shook his hair out of his eyes. The offer kept getting better. “You keep feeding me, I might have to keep coming back.”

“Noted. So, what you’re saying is I should bring you a burger _and_ the nachos _and_ some chocolate cake?”

“You had me at chocolate cake. Just fucking set up a cot in the office. No need to be fancy about it, I’m not picky.” _Shit_. He hadn’t meant to say that. Tim held his breath, but Armie laughed. He had taken it as a joke. Which was how Tim had meant it. Mostly.

“You prefer goose down pillows or fiberfill?” Armie asked, backing toward the kitchen.

“Come on man, don’t scrimp on the pillows. I do have some self respect,” Tim called after him.

He decided that if he wasn’t going to get any sleep that night, he was damn well going to get some the next night. He settled on a stool at the bar and pulled up the numbers for the cheapest hostels and started calling around. Thankfully, one had availability.

“It’s a mixed room,” said the guy on the line. “Means we stick you in with whomever.”

“That’s fine,” said Tim. He’d sleep with his guitar again. Not like he wasn’t getting used to it. Before long, he’d probably be unable to sleep _without_ it. The mixed room was more expensive than the dormitory options available at some places, but he’d spring for it this once. He needed some fucking _sleep_.

As he was hanging up, Armie reappeared and set a burger down in front of him.

“You _did_ have somewhere to be,” said Armie.

“I didn’t. I swear,” Tim said. It was the truth, after all. “I was setting something up for tomorrow.”

“Another gig? You cheating on me already?” Armie asked. Tim considered how to respond to that. He was sure Armie was joking — he had this crinkle at the corner of his eyes, and one corner of his mouth was lifted — but he wasn’t sure of the right response. All of those thoughts flew out of Tim’s head, however, when Armie took the ketchup bottle and, without ceremony, _dumped_ a heap of ketchup on-fucking- _top_ of the fries. The fries that Tim had been about to dig into, because they looked and smelled like heaven.

“ _What_ did you just _do_?” asked Tim, before he could help himself.

“What?” Armie looked around, clearly confused.

Tim pointed at the plate of fries. “That. That...bloodbath.”

“Oh.” Armie frowned. “I’m sorry. Do you not like ketchup?”

“I do. But that’s not the point,” said Tim. “You put the ketchup _on the fries._ ”

“Where am I supposed to put it?”

“In a puddle to the side. So that you can dunk the fries into it.” Jesus. So the man wasn’t perfect after all. It was comforting, in a way.

Armie squinted at him and smiled. “What the fuck is the difference?”

Okay, time for some education. Maybe Armie could be _trained_ to use condiments like a civilized person instead of a caveman. “The difference is that now, the fries are unevenly ketchupped.”

“Ketchupped? Is not a word.”

Tim rolled his eyes. That was completely not the point. He wondered if he should laugh this off, let it go. It wasn’t like it was that big of a deal. But Armie was looking at him with...interest. The slight smile, the intent gaze, focused on Tim as if they weren’t in the middle of a crowded bar. _That_ was something Tim wanted to prolong, if possible. Even if Armie ended up thinking he was fucking crazy.

“You knew what I meant, so it was an effective signifier of a concept, which makes it a reasonable word,” he said.

Armie stared at Tim. “Who _are_ you?” he asked. Something shifted behind his eyes, and Tim felt this long, slow pull in his gut in response.

“Also,” said Tim, deciding to push it as far as he could go, “now that you’ve drowned the fries, they don’t have a fighting chance. They’ll get soggy.” He spoke slowly, as though to imply, _Like any fool couldn’t see that_.

Armie raised an eyebrow. “I can fix that,” he said. Tim watched, his mouth falling open, as Armie grabbed a huge handful of ketchup-slathered fries, with absolutely no regard for the fact that they were a sticky mess, and pushed the entire handful into his mouth. He chewed deliberately, his gaze steady on Tim. Then — Tim nearly fell off his stool at the lightheaded sensation he was experiencing — Armie proceeded to slowly lick every digit clean, his tongue darting in and out of his mouth expertly.

When he was done, he gave Tim a challenging look. “Problem?” he asked.

“You’re kind of insane, aren’t you?” It burst out before Tim could think, accompanied by a laugh.

“Want me to get you another plate of non-‘ketchupped’ fries?” asked Armie, wiping his hands on a napkin.

“No,” said Tim, deciding to play along. Time to see how Armie would respond to a similar sight. “Your way looks more fun.” Tim grabbed a handful of his own and ate the fries — which were delicious, ketchupped or not — and then slowly licked his own hand clean.

He watched Armie clear his throat and then turn away abruptly to serve some beers. Tim’s stomach rolled in anticipation. He couldn’t be mistaking the look he had seen on Armie’s face. Couldn’t be. It spoke of _want_ , plain and simple. As if watching Tim had done the same thing to Armie as watching Armie had done to Tim. But Armie was straight. And had a girlfriend.

 _Fuck._ What that hell was he  _doing_?

This game he was playing was stupid and pointless and maybe a little dangerous to his equilibrium and his future. If Armie started to have... _thoughts_...about Tim, he could very well decide it was better not to have Tim around.

That couldn’t happen. By the time Armie returned, looking normal again, Tim was smiling easily. He pushed all of these unnecessary thoughts as far down as they would go and set about making Armie comfortable.

He _did_ seem comfortable with Tim. Over the course of the next several hours, they chatted sporadically, whenever Armie could spare a moment. While Armie was tending to his business, Tim watched the games on the televisions and allowed the pleasant beer-buzz to wash over him. After the week he had been having, this was basically bliss.

Armie didn’t mention him leaving, not once, so Tim just stuck around. He waited for Armie to tell him _we’re closing, better head home_ , but it didn’t happen. Instead, the one a.m. closing time rolled around, people trickled out, and Armie locked the door behind them. Tim still sat perched on a bar stool, barely able to believe his luck.

By the time Armie returned, Tim had hopped down and began to bus the rest of the glasses and dishes that were lingering in the room.

“You don’t have to do that,” said Armie, throwing a wet rag over his shoulder and taking the bus bucket from Tim.

“I don’t mind,” said Tim. He snagged the rag before Armie walked away and began to wipe down the counters. If he helped, he could stay longer. If he stayed longer, he wouldn’t have to head out into the cold just yet.

Eventually, when everyone else had left, and Tim was rinsing off his hands, Armie returned from the back room. He eyed Tim for a minute. Tim stepped out from behind the bar. Had he taken it too far? Assumed too much? But then Armie spoke, and relief coursed through him.

“I should pay you,” said Armie.

Tim shook his head. “You fed me enough today to feed seventeen people for a week. And you gave me some extra cake for the road. I’m pretty sure I’m the one coming out ahead.”

“How’d you make out in tips?” Armie asked, gesturing at the now-empty tip jar on the stage.

“About sixty,” said Tim. “Not too shabby.”

“Especially for your first Sunday, during football season,” said Armie. “It’ll increase.”

Tim shrugged. “Even if it doesn’t, that’s sixty bucks more than I had this morning.”

“How does it compare to what you make busking?”

“Depends. On where and when I’m playing and what types of crowds are listening. Sometimes it would be more, sometimes a lot less.”

Armie nodded. “Okay,” he said with a yawn. “I’m ready to collapse. Can I put you in a cab?”

“Nah, I’ll be fine,” said Tim. He reached for his coat and shrugged it on. His things were already set by the door, ready for him to grab and run if Armie started asking more questions. Which, of course, he did.

“It’s getting colder,” Armie said, glancing out the windows. “And the T is done for the night. How else are you getting home?”

Tim’s mind raced. What should he say? He’d just turned down the cab. “Um...someone is coming to pick me up,” he said.

“Oh.” For a second, Tim though Armie looked disappointed. “Girlfriend?”

Tim snorted, trying to hold back a laugh. “No. A friend.” Was that relief on Armie’s face? It couldn’t be, that was just Tim being stupid again.

“I’ll hang out with you until they get here,” Armie was saying.

Okay, it was time to make his exit. “Actually, I’m meeting them over on Mass. Ave. Just easier for them.”

Armie frowned. “Want me to walk with you?” he asked.

Tim shook his head, trying to hide his surprise that Armie was being so insistent. “Go home. You’ve let me monopolize enough of your time today.” He finished buttoning up his coat, slung his messenger bag across his chest, and hefted his duffle onto his shoulder.

“ _Let_ you?” Armie laughed softly, staring at the ground. “I’m pretty sure you let me bribe you to stay with food and drink.”

Tim grinned at Armie, who grinned back. This guy — _this guy,_ this beautiful man, who had everything, it seemed — actually wanted to hang out with him. Suddenly Tim didn’t care that the only things outside the pub door were cold and darkness and loneliness. Right now, and for the foreseeable future, someone wanted him around. He realized that he wanted to do everything in his power to make sure that stayed true.

“Listen, thanks again for this gig,” he said earnestly. “I’m really...I hope we can continue it, because I like playing here. This place is…” He trailed off, looking around the room. “Anyway. I just want you to know I appreciate it. And I take constructive criticism, so if you want me to do anything differently, just tell me and give me a chance to fix it.”

“Sure,” said Armie. “You too. If something’s not working for you, let me know.”

Tim nodded. “Okay then.”

“Okay then,” replied Armie.

Tim gave a little salute, picked up his guitar, and walked out the door.

Outside was even colder than he had anticipated. He paused for a moment, letting the pub door swing shut behind him, and hunched his shoulders. He’d be fine. It was just one night, after all. And it wasn’t like it was freezing temperatures yet or anything. He’d layer up, find a spot out of the wind, and wait for the morning.

But first, he had to walk towards Mass. Ave. Just in case Armie decided to look outside. The last thing he wanted was for Armie to find out what was really going on. If Armie found out, this thing between them, this thing that Tim was feeling deep down was _important_ , whatever form it took, would disappear.

Because, after all, why would Armie — who had made his own success, and was so competent it was painful to witness — want to hang out with someone who couldn’t keep his shit together enough to even have a fucking place to _sleep_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that not all homeless shelters operate like the one described herein. There are many kinds, run by many organizations made up of good people who are trying to make a difference to a population that many citizens ignore. Even the ones that run like the one Tim stays at in this chapter do so for valid reasons. Required bathing before bed minimizes infestations and makes cleaning easier; required checking of possessions minimizes theft; rows of beds in warehouse-like rooms rather than smaller accommodations means more people can be housed; curfews are in place to establish order (among other things). That doesn't change how someone might feel being under that sort of scrutiny, and how the limitations might make things difficult, as we shall see.
> 
> This is a long way of saying that I created what I needed for this story, and I have nothing but respect for shelter workers fighting a lonely battle.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The spiral downward continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience! (That's basically going to be a refrain in general, I'm sorry!)
> 
> At long last, here's chapter five. I told you I was working on it...and I finally had an afternoon with zero interruptions or immediate obligations that I could zone in and figure out the path I was trying to take here.
> 
> I know I'm also behind on responding to comments. I'm behind on everything. IRL, too, it's just the state of my existence right now: _behind behind behind._ Know that I appreciate the comments more than you can even imagine. They keep me going, even when it takes me a while.
> 
> 100% fiction.

****

**[Art by Chalamazed](https://twitter.com/chalamazed) **

* * *

The several weeks following his second night at _Cor Cordium_ were surreal to Tim. He felt like he was wandering around in some kind of alternate reality, a combination between a dream and a nightmare.

The dream was the time he was spending at the pub. Playing his music, bantering with the crowd, seeing the tips fill his jar. It was all he had ever really wanted, to be able to have people hear his music and respond to it. To respond to him.

Then, of course, there was Armie. Tim loved thinking about Armie. He loved it because the man was a fucking dream himself. Tim had never met anyone like him before. He was so comfortable with himself, and confident in everything he did or said. It wasn’t arrogance, either, just a sort of quiet assurance that Tim could only long for.

He also seemed to genuinely like being around Tim, which was...well fine, maybe not _crazy_ since Tim thought he was a decently interesting person under most circumstances...but he wasn’t used to someone so fucking _cool_ wanting to be around him.

Tim found himself doing this ridiculous thing that he’d never done before: he was _practicing_ his goddamned future conversations with Armie. They ran through his head basically any time that he wasn’t actively engaged in something else. He would think of something he wanted to tell Armie about and rehearse all the ways he could bring it up, how Armie would respond, the clever comment Tim would make in return. Then he’d make a note in his phone about the subject so he’d remember to bring it up the next time they were together.

Fucking insanity.

One night, over a third beer, Armie had mentioned needing to catch the new Marvel movie. For a split second, Tim thought that maybe Armie was about to invite him to go, and that idea was almost more than Tim could quite handle — sitting in the dark theater, inches from Armie, for two hours — but he didn’t.

Instead, he said, “Everyone always talks about Batman vs. Superman, but what I really want to know is who you think would win in a fight: Batman or Iron Man? Neither of them has any actual super powers, so it’s a much more interesting question.”

Tim blinked. “Iron Man, obviously,” he said. “No contest.”

“No contest?” Armie raised an eyebrow. “That was a test, Tim, and you failed.”

Tim’s stomach flipped, but then he saw the glint in Armie’s eyes and relaxed. “I failed nothing,” he said. “If you think Batman could win over Iron Man you’re insane.”

Armie leaned an elbow on the bar. “Yeah? Okay, let’s think about this. Batman has access to an untold amount of stealthy technology. He is a master of martial arts.”

Tim leaned forward as well. “Iron Man has access to better technology and a better understanding of how it works. And he has that fucking suit. No way in hell Batman wins against Iron Man’s suit.”

“Batman is smart enough to disable the suit and stealthy enough to avoid harm while doing it.”

“Smart? Tony Stark is a genius. A literal genius. Batman is—”

“Batman.” Armie leaned closer. “He’s Batman. He’s loaded and can buy any help he needs.”

“So is Tony Stark! And Stark is more powerful because—”

“Batman.”

“No, listen, Iron Man—”

“Batman.”

“Tony Stark fucking saved his own life by—”

“Batman.”

Tim’s breath caught in his throat. Armie had leaned in so close their foreheads were nearly touching. His blue eyes, sparkling and amused, bored into Tim’s.

“Batman?” Tim managed, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Batman.” Armie dropped his voice into the Batman growl, and it went straight to Tim’s groin. _Shit._ He swallowed.

“Okay,” he said. “If you’re sure.”

Armie leaned back and grinned. “I knew you’d come around. Now, what about Batman vs. Spiderman?”

“Come on,” said Tim, hoping his voice wasn’t shaking. “That’s stupid. Obviously—”

“Batman,” they said, together.

“I’ll give you that one,” said Tim, “but I still think you’re a little too obsessed with Batman.”

Armie glanced around, then leaned back in. “I have a secret,” he said. His breath in Tim’s ear, he muttered, “I’m Batman.”

Tim burst out laughing. “You’re crazy,” he said. “I lo—”

He snapped his mouth shut and felt the heat rise in his cheeks. What the _fuck_ had he been about to say?

“What?” asked Armie, smiling. “I’m crazy, and you what?”

Tim licked his lips. “I like Batman,” he said. “So that works out.”

Armie reached out and tugged at the end of a curl, then turned away to take care of a customer.

Even conversations about the most inconsequential things — like fucking fictional characters — felt important when they were with Armie.

Beyond that, being around Armie made Tim feel...not relaxed exactly, because sometimes he was the opposite of relaxed. But a soft touch of Armie’s palm on his shoulder or Armie’s elbow against his bicep just kind of _settled_ Tim in a way that nothing ever had before. He was so used to operating on a higher frequency than the world around him, always feeling like he was vibrating, and when Armie touched him — which happened quite a lot, when Tim stopped to think about it — the vibrations stilled temporarily.

The nightmare, on the other hand, was that he couldn’t be at _Cor Cordium_ or with Armie all the time, and the rest of the time was...not as good.

So that was a fucking understatement but why face the reality when he could sugar coat it a bit?

 _Not as good_ meant that he was barely managing. Armie was paying him, and he was collecting tips, and he had the crap convenience store job, but all of that amounted to enough to pay for rides on the T, food, other necessities, and left not enough for anything else of substance. The busking money basically dried up by mid-November, and without that, he couldn’t even think about affording hostels on an even semi-regular basis.

So it was shelters or nothing. And with the November cold snap, it was shelters. The trouble was that, with the weather being unseasonably cold, the shelter lines were long as hell, and that meant Tim needed to show up earlier and earlier. Which meant having to turn down shifts at the convenience store in order to have a place to sleep. And he really couldn’t afford to turn down shifts.

After the barest non-housing necessities, he had some extra cash, but not enough extra. He began to hoard the extra cash, thinking that if he could get enough, he could get into some kind of shitty apartment. If he could just get into an apartment, he could start earning more money, because he wouldn't be tied to the shelters. So he tucked it away, was paranoid about having it stolen, and counted and recounted the tiny stack of bills far too often.

It was almost ironic that the worst nights were Sunday nights. Since they were the best...until he had to leave. And then, it was far too late for a shelter and so it meant a long night of wandering and not sleeping.

On top of that, being around Armie was the best thing ever, and yet...it was also sort of the worst. The man made him _feel_ things that he wasn’t supposed to be feeling, not about a heterosexual boss with a serious girlfriend. Sometimes he was tempted to just say _fuck it_ and give in to his need to, whatever…

...move a little closer…

...touch a little longer…

...inhale a little more deeply…

...stare with a little more _intent_ …

...but that was a good way to lose himself a really good gig — the only really good one he had — so he didn’t do it. Any of it. Instead, he stayed professional, maybe a little friendly, and tried to keep his distance as best as he could, both physically and metaphorically.

Dream and nightmare, all in one.

Basically, by the beginning of December, Tim was starting to feel like he was making decisions based not on any long term plan but based on what he needed in a single minute of time. He needed something to eat. He needed to be warmer. He needed people to stop staring at him. He needed a shower. He needed to _not_ reach out and run his hands up and down Armie’s chest to see if it would feel as good as it looked.

Thinking along the lines of such short term necessity was draining.

Tim tried his best not to dwell on it, but when Armie actually asked him to start playing _twice_ a week, he was more focused on crunching the numbers than on thoughts of additional exposure and opportunity. The extra chunk of cash might mean that he could stay in a hostel after he played, so he wouldn’t end up outside or wandering through twenty-four-hour joints and trying to stay awake. It wouldn’t solve the problem he was having with his boss at Quick Convenient, but it was definitely something. It made him think that if he could just keep his head down and not do anything too stupid, keep docking away ten or twenty bucks here and there, he could make it for a few months until the weather thawed and he was able to start busking again. That was all he needed, just a little more time with nothing going wrong.

And then came the second Sunday in December.

The morning had started okay, When he woke up at the shelter, he woke up fast — without needing to drift in that half-stage of dreamy consciousness — the way he always did on a _Cor Cordium_ day. He had an early shift at Quick Convenient, a half shift, and then he’d get to go be happy for an evening before facing the reality of his life once more.

He had already had one setback that week. On Friday morning, he had found that his cell phone had been shut off. He knew he hadn't really been paying the bill for it since the summer — not all of it, anyhow — and so it wasn't like it should have been a surprise, but it still felt like he had been smacked in the face with a dead fish.

Tim needed his phone. So he ventured into the carrier’s store, a little afraid of the size of the bill and what he was going to do about it. He did have the extra cash, a fair bit, and might be able to just pay off the amount he owed, but then he'd be back to almost nothing.

The guy behind the counter took a look at his ragged appearance — he needed to get to the laundromat, definitely — and eyed him suspiciously. Tim gritted his teeth, smiled, and explained his situation.  He asked how much he needed to pay to get it turned back on rather than pay it off.

When the guy looked up his account, he shrugged.

“Look, man,” he said,”it's actually not so bad. I've seen worse. You hit a time threshold rather than an amount, though, which means that they need the whole amount to turn it back on.”

Tim bit his lip. The amount he owed was about two-thirds or what he had been able to save. He could pay that, but then he'd just have to pay the bill again when it came due in a few weeks, and he'd be able to save even less.

He had really been hoping to be able to do something real with that cash soon.

“What if I paid half?” he asked. “Is there any way we could fool the system? It would be more than a monthly payment, get me some more time?”

The guy looked at him pitiably. “It doesn't work like that,” he said. “There's really nothing I can do. But your account is actually in stasis, not canceled. There's a grace period. So you've got a few weeks to settle it up before it's gone for good and they report the account to collections.”

Tim’s shoulders slumped in defeat as he considered his options. He needed his phone, but in reality what he needed was _a_ phone. A way for people to reach him. And he needed time to think about whether it was worth it to keep his phone and let go of the cash he had saved or not.

So instead of paying hundreds of dollars to turn his phone back on, he left his carrier’s store and headed for one or those cheap shops with the prepaid plans. He picked up a flip phone and paid for a chunk of minutes, no data. He could afford this. He couldn't afford the other right now, and he'd just have to get used to it.

By Sunday morning, he decided to put aside feeling like a loser about the phone, and focus on the positives.

He had a whole series of things he wanted to bring up to Armie this time. It was like his brain had been working overtime since Wednesday, and it was starting to get a little crowded in there. He was more than ready for Armie’s hand on his shoulder or his back, Armie’s laugh echoing in his head while they smoked in the back alley, Armie’s smile when he finished his sets.

In any event, he had left the shelter without incident, made it to work on time, relieved the owner’s teenaged son who had been manning the shop since it opened, and had a relatively quiet morning. There were waves of customers, but nothing too crazy, so he had been able to get in some work in his notebook. He was working on an old piece that he had abandoned over the summer. Recently, the vibe of it had begun to become clear once again, and he thought he might actually get somewhere.

He began to get a little nervous when the time for the end of his shift came and went and no one had showed up to relieve him. He knew Ansel was on the schedule, and while that guy didn’t seem to own a watch, he usually sauntered in just barely on time or a couple of minutes late. This time, the minutes ticked by, and nothing.

Tim sent off a text to his boss, Jerry, to find out what he should do. He needed to be at _Cor Cordium_ to play at four, and when he got off shift at two-thirty that gave him enough time to get up to Cambridge, grab some food, and have a moment of zen before he went on.

Two-thirty rolled into three, and then ten past, before the door swung open and his boss walked in looking annoyed, as usual. Tim closed his notebook and slid it off the counter. Jerry got annoyed when he was doing anything at all personal while on duty, even if no one was in the store.

Sure enough, Jerry sauntered in, looking around with a frown. The man was always looking for problems. For a while, Tim thought that maybe he just had resting bitch face, but no...he was just always in a crap mood. Tim braced himself for a slew of criticism — the shelves were dusty, or he was supposed to have known to restock something, or something had been put back upside down — anything to have something to complain about and blame on his employees.

“There’s smudges on the door,” said Jerry, waving behind him. “Can’t be bothered to wipe them off?”

Tim bit back a petty response, and just said, “Sorry. I didn’t notice. It was a little busy for a while.” Usually, if he mentioned that it had been busy, Jerry would focus on looking at the receipts and calculating profit and forget about his complaints.

This time, however, the man scanned the store. “No one here now. I don’t pay you to sit on your ass.”

Taking a slow breath, Tim stood up from his stool. “I’ll get the Windex,” he said.

He tried to ignore the way his boss just stood there and watched him take the cleaner and paper towels from beneath the counter, walk across the store, and wipe down the glass door. It made the hair stand up on the back of his neck, as if he was bracing for something besides verbal criticism. Which was stupid. He just didn’t like being watched so closely.

When Tim was done, he backed away from the door and Jerry scrutinized his work. “Okay,” he said. “So listen, you’re doing a double today.”

Tim froze. “I...what?”

“You’re sticking around. That blonde kid called out, and I can’t stay today, so it’s you.” He crossed the floor and moved behind the counter.

“Oh. I...sorry, sir, but I can’t stay either.”

Jerry looked up at him with amusement. “Oh no? You have something better to do?”

Tim clutched at the paper towel roll, squeezing it slightly. “Well...yes. I mean, I have somewhere I need to be in an hour. I can’t work tonight.”

“Is it a date?” asked Jerry with a sneer. He punched something into the register and paper began to spool out of the receipt dispenser.

 _What the fuck is it of your business?_ Tim thought, bristling slightly.

“No,” said Tim. “It’s...I have a gig. I play on Sunday afternoons.”

“A gig?” asked Jerry. “Oh, yeah, that guitar you stash in the office. You’ll have to cancel today. I need you here.”

Tim clenched his teeth together. He would make twice the amount he was getting paid at Quick Convenient — even at a time-and-a-half Sunday — just with what Armie paid him, never mind the tips.

“I can’t cancel,” said Tim. “It’s a standing gig. They’re expecting me and I can’t just not go.”

Jerry tore the strip of paper from the dispenser and glared at it. When he looked up, he transferred the glare to Tim.

“Look,” he said, “I think I’ve been more than patient with your restricted schedule.” His boss made his voice high pitches and whiny as he launched into an imitation of Tim. “ _Jerry, I can’t work after four, Jerry, I can’t come in before nine, Jerry, I can’t...can’t...can’t…_ Fucking pain in my ass. Forget it. This time you’re taking the shift I give you and you’re not going to whine about it.”

Tim swallowed. There was no way he was staying and missing _Cor Cordium_. He couldn’t stand the idea of not going back there until next Wednesday. He couldn’t afford to lose a day of what he was paid there. But mostly, he couldn’t imagine disappointing Armie by canceling out of the blue.

“Sorry,” said Tim. “I know it puts you in a bind, but this wasn’t my shift, and I can’t stay.”

Jerry moved out from behind the counter. “What is it you do every night anyway, that you can’t work the late shift?” he asked. “You got something more than a music gig?”

“What?” asked Tim. “No.”

He wasn’t sure what Jerry was asking him, but there was no way he was telling his boss that he had restricted hours because he was sleeping in a shelter. People were weird when you told them you were homeless. It was why he was so desperate to hide it as much as he possibly could. It was why he couldn’t answer Luca’s calls or ask Luca if he could stay with him for awhile.

No one — no one who _mattered_ — could know.

“You do, I bet,” said Jerry, taking a step closer. “You got some _clients_ you take home at night?”

“ _What?_ ” Tim’s mouth dropped open. “No. Fuck you.”

“I don’t swing that way,” said Jerry. “But maybe my brother would be interested. He likes the skinny ones.”

Tim took a step back. “Listen,” he began. “This is — you can’t just say shit like —”

“It’s my business and I can say whatever the fuck I want. And you’re fucking fired.”

The Windex fell from Tim’s hand and bounced on the linoleum. “No,” he said. _Shit, shit, shit._ This was a crappy job and he hated it, but he _needed_ it. “No, listen, I’m sorry. I wish I could stay today—”

“You’re fired. Get your shit and get out of here.” Jerry waved his hand in Tim’s direction and returned to the his spot behind the counter. “Oh, this is yours too, I’m guessing.” He pulled Tim’s notebook out from underneath the counter and tossed it at Tim.

It landed on the floor, face down, next to the Windex. Tim looked at it for a second, how the pages had bunched up underneath the back cover and part of it was lying in a muddy boot smear. His vision narrowed to a single point, on the corner of the notebook, the one that was slightly torn from use. There was a rushing sound in his ears, and his chest tightened, making his breaths come out in short gasps.

 _Stop,_ he told himself. _It’s a fucking crap job. You can get another one. A better one._

 _How?_ asked his skeptical side. _No one is hiring these days, and you’re going to have the same problems anywhere._

 _You will. It’ll be fine. Get to_ Cor Cordium _, you’ll feel better after you do._

 _Temporarily,_ he reminded himself. _Until tonight, when it dips into the teens and you can’t find a place out of the wind._

“You going to stand there all night? If you are, you could have saved your job.” Jerry’s voice cut into Tim’s internal argument and the rushing in his ears subsided. His chest loosened as he took several slow breaths.

He slowly bent down and picked up the notebook. He smoothed out the pages, wiped at the damp spot, and closed it.

When he straightened up, he looked his boss — former boss — in the eye, and smiled.

“I’m going,” he said. “Thanks.”

He strode past the man towards the back office to collect his things. “Thanks for what?” asked Jerry, when he emerged again.

“Thanks for putting me out of my misery,” said Tim. “Your store sucks. Your selection is crap, your prices are too high, you alter the sell-by-date on the dairy products. And the ‘blonde kid’? His name is Ansel, and he’s fucking your wife, you idiot.”

It was Jerry’s turn to gape in surprise, but Tim turned away and shoved open the door. The blast of cold air, for once, felt fresh and clean rather than oppressive.

He may be truly fucked, but at least he wasn’t as fucked as that asshole.

An hour later, he was running late. He had stopped at the Panera Bread in Porter Square to freshen up in the bathroom (they didn’t make a big deal of it if you didn’t buy anything first as long as you grabbed a day-old muffin or something on the way out). He also managed to talk himself into a state of relative equilibrium. He wasn’t going to be able to pull off “happy,” but he could probably pull off “moderately frazzled,” and that would just have to do.

When Tim pushed open _Cor Cordium_ ’s front door, Armie was behind the bar, looking up at the clock on the far wall. He turned to see Tim and looked relieved. Tim smiled and waved, then headed straight for the back office, trying to act like he was just running a little late and there was nothing to worry about.

“There’s not much time, but can I grab you something quick to eat?” Armie asked, as they tossed his things into the office.

Timmy willed his stomach to be quiet, and it seemed to work. He wasn’t really hungry anyhow, he’d been feeling slightly nauseated ever since he had walked out of the Quick Convenient.

“No thanks,” he said, waving away the question. “I’ll get something between sets. I’d better go get set up.”

He hated not being able to spend a little time with Armie — it would calm him down — but time was short, and if this was his only job, he had to make sure he did it right.

Still, he was relieved when, as he headed out back for his pre-show cigarette, he caught Armie’s eye and Armie nodded. Tim made his way out back, and once outside he realized that if Armie _didn’t_ decide to join him, he was going to stand out here in the freezing cold for a while with nothing to do, since he had run out of smokes and hadn’t wanted to pay for another pack after getting fired.

Thankfully, the door creaked open a minute later, and Armie stepped into the alley.

“Can I bum one today?” Tim asked him. “I’m out and didn’t have a chance to grab more.”

Armie pulled his pack out of his coat pocket and shook out two cigarettes. He lit one of the cigarettes and handed it to Tim, then lit his own.

Tim gratefully inhaled his first lungful of smoke, waiting anxiously for the nicotine to hit him. He felt like he was vibrating at an extra-high frequency, and for the first time in a while, was thinking that if he didn’t calm down, he might not be able to perform.

He was trying not to think about his situation, but his mind kept going back to the scene in the Quick Convenient. _Fuck._ What if that jerk spread the word that he was unreliable, to other business owners in the area, he’d have an even harder time finding another job. He shouldn’t have said the things he had said.

No matter how good it had felt to say them at the—

“Hey,” said Armie.

Tim’s head jerked up. “What?”

Armie frowned. “You okay?” he asked. “You seem…”

 _Crap,_ he wasn’t pulling off moderately frazzled after all. Armie was worried that he was too on edge today. He needed to get his shit together.

He swung around and fell back against the wall, closing his eyes. “I’m fine,” he said. “Like I said the other day, I’ve just got some stuff right now, and it’s...it has nothing to do with this.” He opened his eyes and focused on Armie, trying to communicate how much he could be trusted. “It won’t affect what happens on stage, I swear.”  _I hope_ , he thought.

Armie shook his head, still frowning.

 _No,_ Timmy thought, squeezing his eyes shut to hold back the tears. He was about to get fired _again_. He could feel it. In a few seconds, he would have absolutely nothing. No phone, no job...no reason to see Armie anymore.

“Just don’t fire me,” he whispered. “Please.”

“Woah, hold on,” said Armie softly. Timmy felt Armie settle against the wall beside him and press up against his arm. “No one is firing anyone. I don’t even really give a shit if you do have a bad night, I’m just...worried.”

Tim let out a breath and felt the worst of the tension slide away. He leaned into Armie, needing to feel his solid, stable form. “Okay,” he said. “Sorry I’m acting insane. It’s...I already got fired once this week, so I’m a little anxious about it happening again.”

“Fired from where?” Armie asked. “Why?”

Tim glanced at him. “You think I’m supporting myself playing for you once a week? Or twice now, I guess.”

“Weren’t you busking?”

“Yeah. Still am, kind of, but it’s harder in the winter. I pretty much have to play in the T stations and those spots are hard to come by.”

“What have you been doing instead? Why in god’s name did they fire you?” Armie sounded...angry. Like he wanted to find someone to punch on Timmy’s behalf. Where the nicotine hadn’t helped him, Armie’s righteous anger for his situation did, creating a warmth in his chest.

He shook his head, not wanting to get into the details. “It doesn’t matter. They were right to fire me, I wasn’t...it was hard for me to keep a schedule that worked.”

“Is that what you were talking about last Sunday?” asked Armie.

Last Sunday? What had he said last Sunday? Tim hesitated. “Basically,” he said.

What Armie said next was a surprise, however.

“Hey, do you...do you need some extra cash?” he asked. “Something to tide you over until you find something else?”

“No,” said Tim quickly. “Definitely no. I’m not taking money from you, Armie. You’ve already done enough.”

“You wouldn’t be — it would be an advance. Like, I can pay you a couple of weeks ahead, and we can catch up later when you’ve got more breathing room.”

It was tempting, but it wouldn’t really help. He had cash, just not enough to get a place to live, and Armie couldn’t help him with _that._ So he said, “Thank you. Really. But no.”

Armie pursed his lips. “Okay, then...you want a job?”

 _What_?

“Uh...Armie...I already have a job here, remember?”

“I mean another job. You want to wait tables, or bus, or something?”

Tim raised his eyebrows. “You looking for extra help?”

“Yeah,” Armie lied.

“Right.” Tim rolled his eyes. Armie was offering him a job, but he didn't really need the extra help at the bar, and no way was Timmy going to take that. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine.” He brought the cigarette to his lips for one last drag, and then nudged Armie. “Let’s go in. It’s cold as fuck out here. I need to warm up my hands before they’ll be able to work the guitar.”

The warm feeling he had gotten when Armie had wanted to defend him, which had grown when Armie offered to help him out, carried him through his first set. The burger and lasagna Armie brought him — along with being able to hang out with Armie — carried him through the second. He was actually able to put all his shit out of his mind for a few hours, and while he knew it would hit him like a ton of bricks that night, he was grateful for the reprieve.

As he was packing up the equipment after his second set, he looked up and saw Armie approaching...followed by a small crowd of unfamiliar people.

“Tim,” Armie said, “I’d like you to meet some friends of mine.” He introduced each of them in turn. “Guys, this is Timothée Chalamet.”

These were all...bar owners. Tim smiled and shook hands and racked his brain as he tried to figure out why a handful of owners of other bars were in _Cor Cordium_ all at once and being introduced to him. The names went by too fast and he knew he was never going to remember them all.

“I hope you enjoyed the show,” Tim said.

“Loved it,” said a large man with a grey beard. “Armie here wasn’t exaggerating when he called you the next Ed Sheeran.”

Tim’s eyes flicked to Armie at the compliment, and he felt the heat rise to his cheeks. Did Armie really think he was  _that_ good? “Well, I don’t know about that, but thank you.”

Another man spoke up. “I know you’re booked here Wednesdays and Sundays, but would you be interested in playing for me on Thursdays? It would be the late slot, from twelve to one.”

“Oh,” said Tim. Another gig. Amazing, but he couldn’t take it, not while he didn’t have anywhere to go afterwards. “I wasn’t—“

“Hang on,” said grey-beard, “I was going to offer a Thursday slot. I guess I could bump someone from Fridays. You’re better than most of my Friday acts.”

“Friday happy hour,” said the tall woman with the red hair.

The others apologized that they couldn’t offer an immediate regular slot, but they’d be interested in having him fill in until one became available. Tim shifted from foot to foot. This was so awkward.

“Thank you all,” he said. “I really appreciate the offers, but I can’t take on any more gigs right now. Maybe...if you’re still interested in the spring, that might work.”

Everyone looked surprised. Including Armie.

“Tim—“ he began, but Tim shot him a look and he closed his mouth.

“Seriously, it was nice to meet you all. I’ve got to run, but I hope you had a good time tonight.” He picked up his guitar case and walked away as fast as he could manage without actually running.

That had been _mortifying_. To have offers to play and have to turn them down because he wouldn’t be able to sleep any night that he had a gig? Twice a week without sleep was bad enough, he wasn’t going to make it if he added more, no matter how much the money would help. The shelters sucked, but at least he could _be_ somewhere for a while instead of feeling like he had to constantly be on the move.

The office was locked, of course, so he had to stand there and wait for Armie to let him in. All he wanted was to get his bags and leave. Maybe he could get into the shelter tonight. He knew he couldn’t hang around here, not after Armie had set him up — and that’s what had happened, he was sure of it — and embarrassed him like that.

He had probably embarrassed Armie too, come to think of it. If Armie had...invited those people, then they might be mad at Armie for wasting their time. Fucking fantastic. Now Armie was probably going to be mad at _him_. Maybe he wouldn’t even want him around anymore. Especially since Armie had already found out he was strapped for cash and could see how desperate and fucked up he really was.

The man had offered him money...and a job that didn’t really exist, for fuck’s sake. That’s how desperate he looked.

But Tim had a right to be pissed off, didn’t he? Armie had just gone ahead and set this up without asking him, and that made Tim feel like he wasn’t capable of taking care of himself. If he had wanted more gigs, he would be looking for them himself.

By the time Armie came through the kitchen door, Tim had worked himself into a good mad. It was safer than feeling helpless and ashamed.

“I’d like my things, please,” he said quietly.

Armie nodded, his expression impassive, and unlocked the office door. “You taking off already? Not going to hang out?”

Tim entered the office and silently shouldered his bags, re-adjusting his grip on his guitar.

“Tim…” Armie began, and Tim couldn’t keep quiet anymore. The frustrations of the past few days came exploding out of him with his next breath, directed at Armie because Armie happened to be there.

“What the _fuck_ was that?” Tim whirled on Armie. “What was that?”

Armie straightened up, and then quickly closed the office door, closing them into the small space. “ _That_ was you turning down multiple paid gigs after revealing to me that your financial situation is dire,” he said. “So I should actually be asking you what the fuck that was. Why would you do that?”

“Those people, they all just happened to be here tonight? At the same time?”

“Well…”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured. You set it up. You invited them. To see me. Without asking me.” Tim clenched his teeth and shook his head. “Don’t you think I maybe should have been let in on the plan?”

“Okay, so I set it up. I thought — think — you deserve more work. And I didn’t want to make you nervous, in case it didn’t pan out.” Armie made it sound so... _reasonable..._ and that just annoyed Tim more.

He rolled his eyes. “That was humiliating. Having to turn them down when they were clearly expecting me to say yes. Did you tell them I didn’t know they would be here?”

“No,” said Armie. “But Tim... _why_? Why did you turn them down? These are good people. They treat their talent well. They’d pay you fairly. That’s why I invited them.”

“It’s none of your fucking business, okay? You keep asking these questions. Always questions. Jesus Christ, take the hint. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Armie took a step back, his face falling instantly. “Yeah, okay. Message heard. I’ll stop bothering you. I’ll leave you alone.”

Immediately, Tim regretted...everything. He regretted the way the day had gone, he regretted turning down the gigs — maybe he could have found a way to make things work — and most of all, he regretted what he had just said to Armie. He didn’t want Armie to stop bothering him. He didn’t want Armie to leave him alone.

He felt the emotion and the crushing weight of everything filling up his chest and forcing tears to his eyes. _Fuck._

“No, that’s not what I…” He tried to backpedal. ”I know you only wanted to help. I just can’t...you don’t really know me, Armie. You think you do, but you’ve got no idea…”

He dropped his guitar and duffle to the ground and turned away, rubbing at his face. Armie had already seen that he was struggling. He didn’t want Armie to see him cry.

Of course, turning away didn’t help. The next thing he knew, Armie was speaking softly, and wrapping his arms around Tim. He froze at the gesture, but when Armie turned him around and gathered him close, the sensation of having this man’s arms encircling him, having his solid chest in front of him, feeling suddenly _safe_ for the first time in weeks, it was too much to resist. He felt himself melting into Armie, and let the tears come.

Armie stroked Tim’s hair, murmuring nonsense, and Tim released all of the pent-up... _everything..._ that had been building up for who knew how long.

Finally, Tim sighed out a last sob and pulled away. Armie hugged him, then let him go, but he grabbed Tim’s hands in his own and held them.

“Friends, remember?” said Armie. “I fucked up. I shouldn’t have called them without asking you. I’m sorry. But don’t...don’t run off. I won’t push you anymore, I promise.”

Tim sniffed, and raised his eyes to Armie. He couldn’t believe his luck. Here he was, a fucking _mess_ , and Armie was just being kind to him, making him feel protected. Special.

That was what he had been trying to do with the bar owners, too, Tim realized. He was attempting to help Tim, because, for some reason, he thought Tim was worth helping. Amazing.

“Yeah,” said Tim. “I’m sorry I flipped out. It was a nice thing you were trying to do. I’m just..frustrated with my life at the moment. Not with you, or _Cor Cordium_ ,” he added hastily. He flexed his hands in Armie’s.

“You need to wear gloves,” said Armie. “Protect these money-makers.”

Tim laughed and pulled his hands away, slightly embarrassed at their chapped state. “Yes, mom,” he said, his voice light and tentative.

“Come on. Take off your coat, stay a while. The Pats are playing the night game, they’ve started by now. We can have a beer and yell at the television. No more questions.”

Tim nodded. “Instead of a beer, can I have chocolate cake?”

“You can have both,” said Armie with a smile. “As long as it makes you happy.”

Tim shook his head. “You’re deranged,” he said. “Beer and chocolate cake. It’s as bad as drowning fries in ketchup. But maybe a scotch…”

“I like the way you think,” said Armie, slinging his arm around Tim’s shoulders and leading the way out of the office.

Tim relaxed into Armie’s side. Things were fucked up, that was for sure. But for a few hours more, he was going to choose to focus on the moment. He’d deal with the rest of it later.

* * *

_Tim backed away from the door of the suite. Was he making the biggest mistake of his life? Probably. A man like Armie only came around once in a lifetime, and wasn’t going to wait around for long. No matter how much he_ said _he would wait forever, that wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. He was successful, kind, and hot as hell. If he was single for more than three seconds, Tim would be shocked. The only reason Tim had had a chance at all was because Armie_ hadn’t _been single when they met. He had been off the market, not looking around, and politely declining any and all offers._

Tim _had snuck into Armie’s affections because Armie hadn’t known it was happening. They had become friends, and then Tim had — accidentally — made Armie feel bad for him, and the man’s fucking savior complex had kicked in, and that was the only reason Tim was here at all. Armie liked to take care of people. It was why he had such a successful pub, why he had long nurtured friendships, why he had even given Tim a second look in the first place._

_If he was smart, he’d turn around and go back to him now, keep him as long as he could, before Armie realized he was better off before Tim screwed up his life._

_Tim turned and strode back across the room towards the bedroom door._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stick with me...we'll get there!
> 
> Love you all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rock Bottom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your patience is godly. For those of you still here and still interested in this story, thank you from the bottom of my heart.
> 
> Perhaps when you read this monstrously long chapter you will understand why I have been struggling. This was a tough one to write. It will likely be a tough one to read, since we all love Tim and hate it when he hurts.
> 
> This is truly rock bottom for him in this story, and you know what comes next if you've read part one, so...
> 
> 100% fiction.

__

Art by [Chalamazed](https://twitter.com/chalamazed).

* * *

 

_Tim could feel the perspiration breaking out on his neck as he got nearer to the bedroom door. He got within two steps and stopped._

_What the_ fuck _was he doing?_

_The whole point he had made to Armie earlier was that he needed to be able to stand on his own, to know he could take care of himself, in order to be comfortable and confident in being in a relationship with Armie. He needed to remember who he was, separate and apart from Armie, before he could offer himself to their partnership._

_And what was he doing at this very second?_

_Demonstrating that he was incapable of even walking out of a hotel suite, too afraid to put another wall between him and the person who had been his literal savior. Too afraid to stand on his own._

_Shit._

_Okay. He needed to think._

_He sank to the ground, right in front of the door, pulling his knees to his chest._

Who am I?

* * *

Tim had never been a religious person. He had grown up in a household that was half Christian and half Jewish, which meant he really wasn’t much of either. Sure, he celebrated Christmas and Chanukah, but the rest of the year he pretty much ignored anything that had to do with concepts of faith and God.

It wasn’t that he didn’t think about the great moral questions. He did. Why was he here? What was his purpose? Would he divert the train to the secondary track and kill the one person rather than let it continue on the main track and kill the five?

He had never figured out the answer to that last question, which meant he’d probably do nothing and let his inaction be his action. And wasn’t that fucking representative of how he had lived his life up until this point?

Take today, for example. He had illegally spent the night in a urine-soaked Downtown Crossing bathroom, dozing fitfully with his forehead resting against the rusty metal stall partition, his guitar and duffle and messenger bag piled in his lap so they didn’t touch the floor. As soon as he knew it was morning enough for the fast food restaurants to be open, he had ducked out of the station, avoided the knowing looks from the booth operators, and trudged into the frigid December wind that whipped up Summer Street from the harbor.

It was only a short downtown block to the McDonald’s on Washington Street, but by the time he reached the golden arches he thought he might have frozen all the way through to his core. It was still dark out, and when he stumbled through the doors from the street, his duffle getting caught as the door blew shut behind him, the single worker behind the counter glanced up. She had a knowing look for him as well.

They all thought they had him fucking figured out, that was for sure. They took one look at him — at the hair that hung in greasy strands because he hadn’t been able to shower in a few days, multiple layers of clothing, boots that were starting to show their age but that he couldn’t afford to replace, and all the shit he carried everywhere — and he could practically hear the internal monologue.

_Homeless. Probably drunk. Should get a job. Make friends. Probably fucked over his family which is why he has no one to turn to. Might be violent. Probably smells._

The fucking thing of it was he did smell. He knew it. He needed to figure out a way to deal with that before tomorrow, when he went back to _Cor Cordium_ , but he hadn’t come up with anything yet. He had gotten used to being able to get into the shelters, and now that that was getting harder, he had to come up with some other plan. But he didn’t have one, so he just...kept stumbling forward on this path to whatever hell was laid out for him next.

He did his best to ignore the way the cashier seemed to be unable to meet his eyes and ordered a number two meal with a large coffee. He hated to part with the money, since he was saving as many pennies as possible to try to amass enough for a couple of months rent in a shitty apartment, but he desperately needed something hot inside him. The cashier eyed him as he dug out his wad of cash and carefully peeled out the necessary bills — now she was thinking _if he has all that cash, why doesn’t he find a place to live, did he steal it? Maybe he’s saving it to buy drugs_ — but said nothing.

When his order was ready, he took it into a corner booth and tried to eat slowly, make it last, since he didn’t intend to have another meal until at least the evening...and since the longer it took him to eat the longer they’d let him stay. He started with the hash brown, because cold greasy potatoes made his stomach turn. Then he nibbled his way through the mcmuffin. He sipped the scalding coffee, letting it warm him from the inside while it burned his palms.

He was done too soon despite his best efforts. With a sigh, he hauled his things back up to the counter. He hung back and waited as a couple of early morning commuters ordered their items to go, and when the cashier was free again he requested the restroom key. She hesitated.

“I just need to use it,” he said. “I promise. I’m not going to fall asleep in there or anything.” He smiled, trying his best to look charming and not desperate. “Look...I’ll even order something else. Right now.” He scanned the dollar menu quickly. “I’ll order an egg mcmuffin and pay for it now and pick it up when I come out. Two minutes. Four minutes, tops.”

Her gaze softened, and she gave him a small smile. She retrieved the restroom key from under the counter and handed it to him. He took the giant wooden plank that was attached to the key, and reached into his messenger bag for his cash. She waved her hands at him.

“Just go,” she said. “When you come out I’ll have your sandwich.”

He nodded and gave her a grateful smile before hurrying around the corner and into the single-stall restroom in the back.

Once the door was locked behind him, he let out a sigh of relief. Being alone was a luxury for people who could afford it. Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to enjoy it.

Moving quickly, he pulled out a change of underwear, a shirt that he hadn’t worn since before his last round of laundry, and a pair of jeans that he thought smelled the least funky. He set it on the small counter by the sink, relieved that this restroom was actually _clean_. He stripped out of his clothes, wadded the stuff he wasn’t intending to put back on into the back corner of his duffle, and turned on the water as hot as it would go. Using the chalky pink hand soap to scrub at his pits, his junk, and his face was a strange combination of amazing and unpleasant...but at least he felt marginally cleaner after he was done.

He dressed again, and with a sigh he pulled his hair back in a tie, since there was nothing he could do about that in here.

When he returned to the dining room and handed over the key, the cashier smiled at him again and handed him a to-go sack.

“Just a couple of extras we had lying around,” she whispered. “Go, before my boss sees.”

He whispered his thanks and, pulling his collar as high as it would go, he pushed his way back out into the windy city streets.

With the sun up, the cold felt less oppressive and inescapable. He wandered his way out to the Common a block over, thinking he’d stroll through it and eventually make his way over to the Public Library and spend the morning there. Then he could try to get in line for the shelter over on that side of the city — one he preferred — as soon as the line formed.

Once he reached the park, however, the wind had died down and he decided to take advantage of the sun while he could. He ambled over to the fountain, which was dry and dormant for the winter, and sat on the ledge. The stone was cold and hard under his ass, but he turned his face up to the sun, closed his eyes, and talked himself into a state of semi-meditation.

Somehow, it worked, and he felt himself drifting, seeking out memories of comfort. He was conscious of the fact that he couldn’t let himself fall asleep, not here, and yet it almost seemed like he was dreaming a bit. Images floated past the orange glow of his eyelids: the stage at _Cor Cordium_ , his favorite coffee shop in NY, Armie watching him play, his bedroom at his parents’ house, the alley behind the pub, the practice spaces at school, Armie offering him a cigarette, Armie grinning at him over a beer, Armie slinging an arm over his shoulders at Copley Plaza, Armie, Armie, Armie...

Despite knowing it was hopeless fantasy, he gave in to the urge to settle on Armie for a while, letting his mind call forth the man’s hands as he filled a glass, the blue of his eyes when he smiled, the bump on his nose, his perfect Cupid’s bow, the lickable indentation above his chin...he was mapping out each eyelash when he heard someone calling his name and jumped.

Pressing a hand to his chest in an attempt to slow his pounding heart, he looked around wildly.

“Tim!”

Striding toward him from the station entrance was Frank, another busker. The twenty-something bleached blonde waved an arm over his head and grinned, and Tim raised his own arm in response.

He waited for Frank to reach him before pushing himself to his feet and offering his hand. Frank took it and shook furiously.

“Tim, how are you, man? Haven’t seen you around in a while.” Frank shoved his hair off of his wide forehead and shifted back and forth in his tan workboots.

“I’m getting by,” Tim said.

Lie, but he and Frank weren’t particularly _close_ or anything _._ Unlike Saoirse, Frank wasn’t especially cooperative with other buskers and had always been possessive of his busking spots, often claiming he had “signed up” for a popular location. There was no such thing, but newbies sometimes fell for it, allowing themselves to be pushed out of spots they had fairly staked first. In any event, Frank didn’t really care how Tim was doing and undoubtedly had his own problems.

So Tim just shrugged. “Can’t really complain.”

“Glad to hear it, glad to hear it. It can get rough here when it gets cold.” Frank looked around, scanning the people walking by during the morning rush hour, and then turned back to Tim. He took in Tim’s bags, and peered at him more closely. “Hey, where are you staying these days? You still with that guy?”

Tim couldn’t help the face he made. “Definitely no,” he said, his voice firm. “I’ve been kind of...staying here and there.”

Frank nodded, his eyes full of understanding. “Yeah. I know how that is, I’ve been there.” Then his face lit up and he smiled. “Hey, actually, I might be able to help you out.”

“You...might?” Tim asked. He couldn’t imagine how, since Frank looked...okay, he looked like he was doing better than Tim. He wasn’t carrying everything he owned around the city, anyway. “What do you mean?”

“So here’s the thing. I’ve had an offer to play in a band down in Atlanta. An old college friend got me the gig, and I’m supposed to head down there the end of the week.”

“That’s great, man, good for you,” Tim said. “Nice and warm down there.”

“No doubt.” Frank looked proud of himself. “But the wrinkle is that I’ve got this lease and I’ve been trying to find someone to take it over for me because I can’t afford to keep paying it if I’m not living there.”

Tim immediately perked up. “You don’t say.”

“Yeah. You interested?”

“Well...depends on how much you pay,” Tim said. He remembered the conversation with Saoirse and how he had momentarily gotten his hopes up until he heard the rent.

“I pay five-fifty a month,” Frank said. “It’s the smallest bedroom in a unit in Medford, so you kind of have to hoof it to public transportation, but—“

“Five-fifty is a great price,” Tim said. He did some quick calculations in his head. If he was playing twice a week at _Cor Cordium_ , and got another part time job, he could manage five-fifty. Easily, if he also got some other gigs.

“It is,” said Frank. “And the dudes who live in the other two rooms are cool. They’re not artsy, but they’re okay. Joe is a grad student at Tufts — some kind of science — and Geoff works at a start-up or something. You interested?”

“I...maybe.” Tim tried not to get his hopes up, but he felt his pulse jumping and his skin vibrating with excitement. He didn’t care if the other guys were aliens or farm animals as long as he had a bedroom and a place to shower. He only had one burning question. “What’s the situation with deposits? Did you put down first, last, security?”

He clenched one hand into a fist, hard enough that he could feel his nails through his gloves. If Frank needed him to take over the deposits for last month's rent and the security...that would mean he’d want sixteen-fifty up front and there was no way Tim would be able to get that by the end of the week.

Frank hesitated, and then said, “well, yeah. The landlord has my last and security. But...I really need someone to take over this lease so maybe...how much could you pay?”

Tim thought it over. He had a little more than six hundred in cash in his messenger bag at the moment, carefully saved and not easily parted with. He would make some more tomorrow night at _Cor Cordium_ , so if he paid almost all of it now, he wouldn’t have nothing for long. And he’d have a place to fucking _sleep_.

“I could give you six,” Tim said. “But I don’t have any more than that, not right now. If you were willing to trust me, I’d pay you back your deposits over a few months. I’m good for it. I have a regular gig already, and if I had a stable place to live...there’s more where that came from.”

Frank seemed to be considering it. He frowned, and then looked up at the clear sky. A wind whipped across the common, and Tim shivered. He could feel hot tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. _Please. Just...please,_ he prayed to no one in particular.

After shuffling his feet around on the rough stones, Frank looked back at Tim. “How about this?” he said. “It’s already a little over a week into December. So we can say that the six hundred you have is for December and two hundred towards the deposits. So you’d still owe me nine hundred.”

Tim nearly fainted with relief. “ _Yes,_ ” he said. “Yes, absolutely. And I can pay you the rest in just a few months. Just give me your Venmo or whatever.”

Frank grinned at him. “Yeah, okay. You can come by Thursday afternoon, I’ll be leaving that morning so will be out by then, I’ll leave my keys with the roommates.” He dug a set of papers out of his bag. “Here’s the lease. Do you have a pen?”

Tim found a pen in his own bag and handed it over, and they made quick work of completing the lease transfer section. Once it was signed, and the lease was stowed in Tim’s bag, Tim recited his new number for Frank and handed over his wad of cash. Frank pocketed it without counting it.

“Well, I have to run,” Frank said. “Still crap to do before I leave. But I’m so glad I ran into you today.”

“Me too,” said Tim. “Thanks. Really, you have no idea.”

They said goodbye, and Frank took off into the Common. Tim watched him go, feeling lighter and more positive than he had in weeks. He knew things would have to turn around eventually. He knew it. He just had to wait.

He sat back down on the edge of the fountain and dug into the McDonald’s bag the cashier had given him, suddenly hungry again. Inside was a McMuffin — sausage, by the smell of it — along with two hash browns and a note.

After devouring the McMuffins and stashing the hash browns for later — he’d deal with cold greasy potatoes in order to have guaranteed food for later, especially now that he was low on cash — he unfolded the note and smoothed it out on his knee.

_I volunteer on weekends at The First Church in Boston on Marlborough Street. If you go there and tell them Jeannie sent you, they’ll let you use the shower in the church basement and hang out for the day. If you need a place to go. Peace._

Tim stared at the paper, his mouth open. Maybe Jeannie hadn’t been thinking negative things about him. Maybe she’d been thinking charitable things, sympathetic things, instead. Either way...he couldn’t believe his luck.

He got to his feet at once and set off across the Common. He was definitely going to take advantage of the offer. He could get clean, and then settle in out of the wind in a place that wouldn’t kick him out until he needed to line up for the shelter.

It may not have started out that way, but it was turning out to be a good day. He sent up a quick prayer of gratitude. He may not have been religious, but since he was headed for a church, he wasn’t about to take any chances, either.

* * *

On Wednesday evening, Tim staggered his way to _Cor Cordium_ , feeling more tired than he had ever felt in his life.

The day before, the church had been welcoming, and let him use their facilities, as promised. He had spent thirty minutes in the shower, scrubbing off days of grime and stress. Afterward, he put on the cleanest clothes he had, and napped on a hard wooden pew in the church — with the pastor’s blessing. It wasn’t comfortable, but at least he felt a tiny bit safe to close his eyes for the first time in a while.

Unfortunately, that’s when his luck had run out. After hours of fitful dozing, he had actually fallen asleep; and by the time someone woke him up, he knew he was in for another night without shelter. Sure enough, when he got to the line, it was around the block, already hundreds of people deep. He considered trying a different shelter, but figured there would be a similar situation everywhere.

So he waited, shivering in the cold, his gloved hands stuffed in his pockets and his chin tucked into his collar. After a couple of hours, when it became clear he wasn’t going to make it in, he decided to get in out of the cold for a while and headed for the Chipotle nearby. He ordered a side of tortilla chips without salsa — the cheapest thing on the menu — and sat in a booth tucked out of view of the counter in the hopes that it would take the employees longer to notice he was lingering. He ate the chips slowly, sneaking bites of the saved hash browns from the morning in between.

When the Chipotle employees began to give him a side-eye, he moved to a Starbucks, where he pulled a reusable mug out of his bag and got a black coffee. Starbucks was more forgiving with lingering than many places, and he was able to hang out there until they closed at nine-thirty. He passed the time scribbling in his notebook. There were a couple of new pieces he was working on, and that old one...he was close on it. Or closer than he had been in a while.

It felt good to _work_. Not just because it was something he loved, but because it made him think about playing at _Cor Cordium_. He began to count the hours and minutes until he could reasonably show up there without it seeming weird.

Once Starbucks closed, he began the long night of moving around. He moved through a series of drugstores and convenience stores, lingering in the magazine and greeting card sections as long as he could before employees began to watch him. He avoided buying anything, except for in one Walgreen’s, where the manager followed him around. He walked out of there with a twenty-five-cent lollipop.

Eventually, he hunkered down in an alley behind Newbury Street. There were others here, and they didn’t move from underneath their bundles of clothes or coats when he chose his spot. He wouldn’t be able to stay all night without moving, but he could manage for a couple of hours, especially knowing he had only two more nights of this to endure...and then he would have a fucking place to _live_ again.

The thought was _almost_ enough to make him feel warm. Almost.

He pulled on some extra sweaters and then put his coat back on and draped a metallic emergency blanket around his entire body, including his head, leaving only a small hole for breathing.

He didn’t sleep, but held out for almost three hours before he decided to start moving again.

Eventually, the stores began to open, and he once again started his never-ending cycle, buying the cheapest thing on the menu and sitting as long as he could before heading for the library. Once enough time had passed, he used the facilities to freshen up, frowning at the redness in his cheeks — from the wind, probably — and the state of his hair. He was starving, not having eaten since that morning, but he knew he would be fed at _Cor Cordium_ so he just talked himself into ignoring the pangs of hunger in his belly.

When he walked into _Cor Cordium_ about two and a half hours before his first set, Armie glanced at the clock, surprise on his face. _Shit_. Was he too early?

But Armie merely wiped his hands on a rag and came out from behind the bar, taking Tim’s duffle and patting him on the shoulder, his voice warm and welcoming as he led them through to the back.

“Can I get you something to drink? Or do you want dinner a little early? You could sit at the bar, hang out.”

Tim’s stomach tried to answer the question for him, but he willed it quiet. The idea of having a couple of hours to talk to Armie was amazing, but he was realizing that what he really needed was a minute to stop and rest, or else he wasn’t going to be able to stay awake through his sets. He hated to ask, but…

He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. “Actually...would it be okay if I hung out in the office a bit before dinner? I’ve had kind of a day, and I feel like I need just...some time.”

“Of course,” Armie said, with no hesitation. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, fine. It’s just been a little crazy, and I need some time to myself to...get into the right headspace.” Tim smiled reassuringly, tried to put on the carefree face he knew Armie was looking for.

Armie nodded. He unlocked the office, and left Tim there, no further questions asked. Tim thought that was odd for a second, but then remembered their argument on Sunday, in which he had told Armie not to ask any more questions. He felt a new sense of shame at the way he had snapped, but was too exhausted to dwell on it. Instead, he closed the door to the office, sat at the desk, and rested his head on his arms. He planned to close his eyes and drift a bit.

He was asleep in seconds.

The next thing he was aware of was a sensation of being cared for. He felt hands brush through his hair, dance over his cheek and jaw, and smiled. _Armie_ , he thought. He opened his eyes, seeing the object of his affection there, and smiled dreamily. Because this was a dream, clearly.

Only...it wasn’t. He was in the office at _Cor Cordium_ and Armie was real.

He sat up, the chair creaking with the sudden movement.

“What…god, did I fall asleep?” he asked, looking around. He desperately rubbed the palms of his hands against his eyes to clear them. “Shit, I’m sorry. What time is it? Did I miss my set?”

“You’re good,” said Armie. “You’ve got forty-five minutes. I came to see what you wanted for dinner, but if you want to sleep more, I do actually have a cot I could set up.”

It was tempting. So tempting.

“Better not,” said Tim. “The way I feel right now I might very well go down for the night.”

“Maybe that’s not such a terrible idea,” said Armie.

What the hell did that mean, Tim wondered? How much did Armie know? “And the show?” he asked. He couldn’t afford to not get paid, not now that he actually owed rent. He had to play.

“We’d survive,” he said. “I’ll tell everyone you’re sick. Which...might not be so far from the truth. You don’t look so hot, Tim.”

 _Fuck._ Armie could tell things hadn’t been going well. Of course he could. Anyone with eyes could. But this was the end of it. It would be better tomorrow, when he moved into his new place. He just had to keep pretending to be fine until then.

“I appreciate the confidence,” he said, smiling to let Armie know he was kidding. “Thanks for the concern, but I’m fine. Just tired. I think I’ll skip the beer and go straight to coffee, if you don’t mind.”

He stood, and was momentarily disoriented at the way his legs shook underneath him. But he managed to find his balance and sighed in relief.

“Sure,” said Armie. “Whatever you want. Andrew added a buffalo mac and cheese with sausage to the menu and it’s amazing. Want me to have him make you that?”

Tim’s stomach growled loudly at the mention of food, and he forced a laugh to cover his embarrassment.

“That’s a yes vote, I assume,” was all Armie said in return.

Andrew’s buffalo mac and cheese was so good — and so warm and so filling — that it nearly made Tim cry. Being at _Cor Cordium,_ talking with Armie about movies they both happened to love...that nearly made him cry, too. By the time he launched into his first song, he was in much better shape and a much better frame of mind, and he knew it was reflected in his performance.

After the first set, Tim perched on a bar stool and rested his chin on his hands. He was contemplating a beer after all, when Armie slid a glass of orange juice in front of him.

“You giving me a screwdriver?” he asked, sniffing it for any whiff of alcohol.

“It’s just juice,” said Armie. “Humor me and drink it, and then I’ll give you whatever you want.”

Armie was smirking at him, like it was funny, but Tim saw the concern behind his humor. He was worried. The thought that Armie was worried about him made him both ashamed and grateful. He drank the juice.

After his second set, Tim didn’t want to leave. He was still exhausted, and going out into the night was decidedly unappealing even with the promise of salvation with the sunrise.

He hung out a while, and when Armie was closing up he quickly jumped to his feet to help out where he could. He knew if he was wiping something down or sweeping something Armie wouldn’t kick him out. 

Too soon, the last of the staff was saying goodnight and exiting the pub. Tim reached for his coat.

“You need to be somewhere?” asked Armie from his spot at the bar.

Tim looked around pointedly. “You’re closed. And going home, I’m guessing.”

Armie shrugged. “Yeah. You could come,” he said. “Hang out a while.”

Tim stilled. Why was Armie inviting him over at two in the morning? _Was_ Armie inviting him over? For what? His pulse jumped as his fantasies sprang to life.

He quickly shoved them back down and peered at Armie. “Come to your place?” he asked.

Armie shrugged. “If you want. It’s close by.” He paused. “I’m not trying to be creepy, but it kind of sounds that way, doesn’t it?”

“It’s late,” said Tim. “Don’t you want to go to sleep?”

“Eventually. I tend to be a little wound up after a shift. Takes me a while to slow down.”

“I should probably sleep,” said Tim. “I mean, I did pass out on your desk earlier.”

“You can always crash at my place, if you needed to,” said Armie. “I have a guest room and everything.”

Tim could barely breathe. Armie was asking him over. And offering him a bed for the night. _This man_ wanted him around, and not just around…he was willing to have him in his home, his personal space. Because he liked Tim, as a fucking person.

There it was again, a feeling bubbling up in his chest that made him want to cry. He wanted to say yes. _Yes, Armie, I’d like that. Yes, that would be great. Yes, cool, I can crash with you tonight, that’s awesome._ He rehearsed the _yes_ answers in a loop. Could he do it? Could he say yes?

Why not?

But then again...realistically, why would Armie ask, unless he suspected Tim didn’t have anywhere to go?

There it was, the shame. Of all people, Armie couldn’t know what was going on. He’d look at Tim differently. Things would change. Maybe he wouldn’t even want Tim to play anymore. He couldn’t risk that, but even more...he couldn’t risk _Armie_ looking at him the way everyone else did when they thought he was homeless.

Not Armie. Never Armie.

At long last, he shook his head firmly. “Not tonight,” he said, shrugging into his coat and gathering his things. He only had this last night to deal with, he told himself. Just this one more night to suffer and he’d be okay again. He could deal with one more night.

“Tim—“ Armie started, but Tim cut him off. He couldn’t let Armie say anything else or his resolve might crumble.

“I should get home. See you Sunday.”

Then he bolted. He was out the door before Armie could react, not letting himself think about it a second longer, or else he might change his mind.

* * *

The next afternoon, Tim peeled off his glove and rapped his knuckles on the weathered front door of his new apartment. His nerves were crackling, and he hopped from foot to foot, not because of the cold, but because he was about to meet the people he would be living with.

He wasn’t just nervous, he was excited beyond reason.

After a minute, he heard the sound of a deadbolt sliding free and then the door swung open. A guy in his late twenties, with a long russet beard and dark-rimmed glasses, peered down at him. He was wearing a green t-shirt that said “Not Likely” in yellow script. It fit him snugly, stretching over a slightly rounded beer gut.

“Can I help you?” he asked, frowning at Tim’s bags and guitar.

“Yeah, I’m Tim, Timothée Chalamet,” Tim said, slightly breathless. His mind went blank for a second, and then he recalled the names Frank had told him, the ones from the lease. “You must be...are you Joe or Geoff?”

The guy squinted at him. “I’m Geoff,” he said, sounding suspicious. “I’m sorry. Did I forget an appointment or something? Are you selling—“

“No.” Tim opened his mouth again, then closed it. What was going on? “Did Frank forget to tell you I’d be coming by?”

“Frank.” Geoff rolled his eyes. “Of course this has something to do with Frank. He’s not with you, is he?” He glanced up and down the street.

“I’m not…he’s not...I’m sorry.” Tim took a deep breath and started again. “I ran into Frank the other day and he said needed someone to take over his lease. So he could move? I...he said I could take his room.”

“Oh.” Geoff looked at him anew, and looked suddenly interested. “Well...he didn’t say anything to us about you — which if you know a Frank shouldn’t surprise you. How do you know Frank?”

A particularly stiff wind gusted past, and Geoff shivered. He looked like he was trying to make a decision, and then sighed. “Listen, why don’t you come inside and we can talk. Joe and I are definitely looking for a new roommate, like, yesterday.”

He stepped back and pulled the door open, and Tim gratefully came in out of the cold. So, okay, Frank hadn’t told Geoff about him. Maybe he had told Joe. Or maybe he had just left them a note and they hadn’t found it. It didn’t seem like they were on good terms.

Geoff closed and locked the door and led Tim into a cluttered living room. He grabbed up a remote and turned off the television and gestured for Tim to take a seat on the orange futon. He carefully set his things down and sat gingerly on the edge; the furniture looked like it was on the verge of collapse.

“I just opened a beer. You want one?”

“Sure,” said Tim. “Thanks.”

Geoff disappeared around a corner, his yellow flip flops slapping in the scarred hardwood floors. Tim took the opportunity to look around the space.

The rest of the furniture was comparable to the rickety metal futon, in quality and condition. The walls were painted white, but had a dinge to them. There were piles of assorted items on every surface...it couldn’t be called tidy. Or clean, really. But there was a gorgeous fireplace, high ceilings, and big windows that let in plenty of afternoon light. He couldn’t see into the kitchen where Geoff had gone, but there was a hallway leading away from the living room that undoubtedly held the bedrooms.

Tim loved it and couldn’t wait to settle in. He’d even be willing to do a huge cleaning as a thank you.

Geoff returned holding two microbrews, passing one to Tim. He took a long swallow.

“Thanks,” Tim said. “I’m sorry to just show up like this. Frank said he’d be out by this afternoon, and told me he’d leave his keys with you guys.”

“Oh, he’s out,” Geoff said. He settled onto an overstuffed recliner. “And we have his keys. So what exactly did he tell you? About the place? And us?”

“Well, like I...told you outside, he said he needed someone to take over his lease, since he was moving to Atlanta—“

“Moving to _Atlanta_?” Geoff barked out a laugh. “Is that right?”

Tim blinked. He wasn’t sure why that was funny. “Well, yeah. I guess. He told me what the rent was, and since I’m looking for a place and could afford it, he signed his lease over to me.”

“He signed his — hang on. What did he tell you the rent was?”

“Uh,” Tim’s stomach sank. Was it not what Frank had said? He wasn't sure he could afford more. “He said he paid five-fifty a month. Is that wrong?”

“His rent was five-fifty, that’s right. You good with that?”

“Yeah. Yes. I can pay five-fifty,” Tim said, relieved.

“So you never said, how do you know Frank?” Geoff downed the rest of his beer. “You want another?”

“No, I’m good,” Tim said. He had barely drunk any of his and was sort of stunned at how fast the other man’s had disappeared. “I don’t know Frank well. We met this summer...busking.”

Geoff frowned. “Yeah, and you got another job, Ted?”

“It’s Tim,” Tim said. “I actually have a steady gig. Two nights a week, at _Cor Cordium_ in Davis Square.”

With a grunt, Geoff stood. “We’re not really interested in living with another ‘musician.’” He made air quotes with his fingers. “So unless you have steady income—“

“But I do,” Tim said, gritting his teeth. “Armie... _Cor Cordium_ pays well. I can afford the rent with just that gig, and it’s...guaranteed.” It wasn’t, but he could talk to Armie about a contract, maybe, if they needed proof. “I’ve also had offers from three other bars to play as a regular. And I am looking for another part time job, I just needed to find another place to live first.”

Geoff looked like he was considering what Tim had said. “You and Frank weren’t close?”

“No,” said Tim. “I didn’t even really like him that much.”

Geoff laughed. “You might fit in here after all.” He ambled out of the room. Tim picked at the label on his bottle before Geoff returned with a second beer.

“Look,” said Tim, “I have the lease.” He set the bottle down on a clear patch of the coffee table, then rifled through his bag for the lease. He handed it to Geoff, who flicked it open and looked it over.

“This is his lease, all right,” Geoff said. “But the problem is...this provision here has to be approved by both Joe and I _and_ the landlord. Who will want to do a credit check and everything and I’m not sure if—“

“My credit is good,” Tim interrupted. That was true. He had a low limit credit card that he had stopped using after his parents kicked him out. They had always paid it, but it was in his name, and he knew he didn’t have any black marks on his record. That, at least, was lucky. But his heart was starting a rapid tattoo in his chest. If the lease wasn’t good, he didn’t know what to do to make it good.

“Okay, but my point is that this isn’t valid. Yet. But…” Geoff looked at Tim closely, and he held his breath. “...you do seem decent. I’m going to be up front with you, the musician thing makes me a little nervous. Frank didn’t leave voluntarily. I don’t know if he’s really moving to Atlanta or not, but Joe and I kicked his ass out for not paying rent. It took us a while to get him out, and he finally left for good yesterday.”

Tim’s mouth dropped open. _Fuck_ , this was not what he was expecting. He began to feel sick. “I had no idea. I’m sorry. I…” He swallowed. Things weren't looking great, but he had to keep trying. He couldn’t walk back out that door into...nothing. He _couldn’t._ He wouldn’t survive. “Listen, whether or not that lease is valid, it could be. You and Joe have to approve it and then we take it to the landlord. I’m an easy person to live with. Quiet. I wouldn’t even be around that much since I’ll be working a lot. So—“

“I mean...I’d be willing to have you meet Joe. Consider it. You could pay for December? Move in right away?” Geoff looked hopeful. He had a shot. He really did. They might let him—

 _Wait a second_ , Tim thought.

“I already paid. For December. I gave six hundred to…” He trailed off and buried his face in his hands, realizing what had happened. His stomach rolled and he felt cold from head to toe. “Shit.”

“Dude. You gave Frank the money? Shit is right. That money is _gone,_ my friend.” Geoff chuckled, and then stopped himself. “I’m sorry, that sucks. I don’t suppose you have another five-fifty.”

“I have…nothing,” Tim whispered into his hands. Then he looked up sharply. “But I will have it. If you can wait until next...a week from Sunday. I’ll have it then, I swear.” He just wouldn’t eat until then. He’d walk everywhere. It would be fine.

“And then will you have it for January first?” Geoff sounded skeptical. “Also, the landlord used Frank’s last month’s rent to cover a month of unpaid rent before he started making us cover it, so he’ll want you to pay in to that as well.”

Tim shook his head. “I can’t,” he said. “But I swear I’ll come up with the cash for rent each month. I just haven’t been able to save enough for all the deposits, which is why—“

“Yeah, I get it. The landlord won’t, and I don’t think...I mean, maybe we could agree to like two thirds the rent for December? Would that help?”

Tim felt tears pricking his eyes once more. He could tell Geoff was a decent enough guy. He could also tell his compassion wasn’t going to extend to covering rent for another potential deadbeat he didn’t know.

He pushed to his feet. “I guess it’s not going to work out,” he said, his voice shaky and his breath hitching. “I’m sorry I bothered you.”

Geoff stood as well. “Man, I wish there was a way it could work. But burned once, you know?”

“Right. I understand.” Tim picked up his bags and shook Geoff’s hands. “Good luck finding a new roommate.”

“Good luck finding a new place,” Geoff said. “I don’t want you to...do you have somewhere to go? Did you, like, move out of somewhere because you thought—“

“I’ll be fine,” Tim said hastily. The thickness in his chest was back, and he needed to get out of there before he cracked. “Seriously, thanks though.”

He hurried to the front door, undid the deadbolt, and yanked it open. He heard Geoff calling goodbye as he slammed it behind him and clattered down the steps.

As he began the long walk back to Somerville and the subway — no way was he giving up any of his cash _now_ to take a bus too — Geoff’s words echoed in his head.

_Burned once, you know?_

Except Tim kept letting himself get burned. With his parents, with Daniel, with that shitty convenience store job, and now with Frank. Even Saoirse had burned him, kind of, although she hadn’t meant to. What the fuck was _wrong_ with him? Why did he keep trusting people? Putting his fate in their hands? Relying on them?

All it had ever gotten him was facedown in the gutter, which was where he was going to be, literally, if he didn’t figure something out, and fast.

He walked. When he got to Davis Square, part of him wanted to stop in to _Cor Cordium_. Say hi to Armie. Maybe have dinner. But he dismissed the thought, as tempting as it was, because he couldn’t let Armie see him like this. He knew his face was reddened from the wind and blotchy from bouts of angry tears. His eyes were probably a mess.

No, no one who mattered could see him right now.

So he kept on walking, over to Mass Ave and down through Harvard, over the Charles. He turned east to avoid Berklee, not wanting to accidentally run into any old classmates, and kept going. When he hit South Station, it was starting to get dark and his legs were aching. His stomach sent up a protest every time he walked by a restaurant, but he ignored it.

He turned around and faced west and kept walking.

Somewhere around midnight, he stepped in a hole created by a dislodged brick, and went crashing to the ground, his palms smacking sharply on the hard surface.

“You okay, man?” Someone was calling out to him from the doorway of a bar across the street. Music spilled out from behind him — top forty shit — and he was probably out for a smoke.

 _See?_ Tim thought bitterly. _People do care._

He willed his legs to move, but for a minute, they wouldn’t.

“You drunk or sick? Need an ambulance?” called the same someone.

Tim didn’t answer, just kept trying to force his legs underneath him. After a few tries, it worked, and he managed to get to his feet with all of his things.

“I’m okay,” he called back, more than a little surprised his voice was working.

He was great at lying by this point.

He trudged forward, pretending that his calves and knees didn’t feel like they were on fire. Pretending that his shoulders weren’t screaming at him from under the straps of his bags. Pretending that he wasn’t freezing cell by cell.

At some point, he was curled up underneath a bench, pretending it was a warm bed.

At some point, he was crying in the bathroom of a Walgreens.

At some point, a cop was kicking him awake, telling him he needed to move on. Maybe offering to make a call or something, but Tim brushed him off and stumbled away into the night.

At some point, he was drinking a hot coffee and stopped, looked at it, tried to recall where it had come from. He panicked about his remaining meager cash, and his heart pounded wildly until he located it, safe in his messenger bag still. He was sitting on the grass outside of a breakfast food truck near the Common. Which is where he had bought the coffee, he remembered.

At some point, he knew he was going — had gone — delirious from lack of sleep.

What he needed, he knew in that moment, was sleep. He needed somewhere to really sleep. Alone. Without hundreds of people snoring around him. Without being stripped of his possessions or sleeping with one eye open, curled around them. He needed somewhere to be safe for just one night so he could make a plan.

The money from _Cor Cordium_ ’s Wednesday night set would get him a night at a hostel, if it was available. But he’d rather have a real hotel, with a hot bath. And this time of year, in Boston...he needed more money.

Three hours later, he was walking out of a pawn shop in Porter Square, a couple hundred dollars richer and one possession lighter. For a moment, he wondered if he was making a huge mistake. How was he supposed to make a plan to get more money if he had just sold his guitar?

He stopped. Nearly turned back around. But there was nothing else. He needed sleep and the only way he was going to get it was selling the guitar. Temporarily. He’d figure out something else to do once he had some sleep, and then he’d get it back.

He’d get it back.

He carefully checked that the pawn ticket was in the zippered pocket of his coat and set off to find a place to sleep.

Friday night was the worst night yet. Worse even than Thursday, most of which he couldn’t remember anyway. Friday was worse because he had been kicked out — fucking _kicked out_ — of hotels. He could barely even get through the door before someone was threatening to call the cops.

By the fifth place, he had walked in with his cash held high, hoping they would see he could pay for the room. But it hadn’t worked.

He should have left the city. Taken a train to Worcester or Providence where they might not have been so discriminating. By the time he’d tried seven hotels, he’d lost ability to do anything other than collapse in the archway of the Downtown Crossing station, pressing his back up against the wall and his side against the metal grating of the closed entrance.

He slept then, only rousing when he felt hands on him. He woke up swinging and kicking, and someone yelped and ran into the darkness. He checked to be sure he still had his duffle and messenger bag, and dozed once more.

In the morning, he was surprised that he could still move and hadn’t frozen solid during the night. Maybe he was just getting used to the cold. He couldn’t remember _not_ being cold.

He was definitely used to the hunger. He barely noticed the ache in his stomach anymore. The day before, he had bought a six-inch sub, whatever was on daily special, from Subway. He had eaten it, but hadn’t really wanted to. It made him feel a little ill, and that was a blessing because it meant he didn’t have to spend anymore of his cash on food.

He shoved himself to his feet, slightly alarmed at the numbness in his legs. He tried moving them around, relieved they seemed to be working even though he couldn’t quite feel them. After kicking and jumping for a minute, the sensations started coming back...along with the feeling of cold.

It was time to go inside. The subway station was convenient for now, and Downtown Crossing was big enough that he could maybe even find a spot to sleep a little more, out of the wind.

He put some cash on his Charlie Card and paid his way through the turnstile. _Cheapest hotel ever_ , he thought, his lips curling into a bitter smirk. He wound through the tunnels to the red line. He thought the tunnel between the Orange and Red Lines was his safest bet; he could probably get an hour or two in there before someone came around to kick him out.

But first…there was something shitty he had to do. And he had to do it now, while it was still early.

He pulled his phone out, saw that there wasn’t much charge, and cursed. Well, he really only needed to make one call. He punched in the number for _Cor Cordium_ , feeling the bile rising in his throat.

The phone rang. Tim waited for the voicemail to pick up, rehearsing the message he needed to leave.

“Cor Cordium Pub.” Armie’s voice, morning-rough and magical, came through the line.

“Armie?” Tim croaked. Shit, he wasn’t supposed to pick up. Tim wasn’t sure he could say what he needed to say with Armie there, listening.

“Tim?” Armie sounded instantly alert. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Tim said quickly. “I didn’t expect anyone to pick up, thought I’d leave a message.”

“I came in early,” said Armie. “What’s up?”

Tim cleared his throat. “Well...the thing is, I’m not going to be able to come in tomorrow. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” said Armie. “But what’s going on? Are you sick?”

Sick? That was as good an excuse as any. “Yeah.”

There was a pause, and then Armie spoke again, his voice cautious. “Want me to bring you soup? Or saltines? What kind of sick are you?”

Tim tried for a laugh. It was just like Armie to make that offer. “No, but thanks,” he said.

“Tim...I tried to call you the other day, but —“

A train, which had been stopped at the station, pulled away, drowning out Armie’s words.

“What?” Tim shouted into the phone, The train disappeared into the tunnel. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

“Your phone. It was disconnected.”

Armie had called him? Crap, he had forgotten to give him the new number.

“Oh. Yeah. I forgot to pay the bill this month so they turned it off. But I have a new one. I can give you the number.” He did so, waiting for Armie to write it down and read it back.

“Hey, you okay?” asked Armie. “Besides...being sick? Because you can ask me—“

“I’m fine,” said Tim. “But, actually…” He heaved a sigh, his breath hitching at the end, feeling sick as he said the words he was dreading. “It might be awhile before I can play for you again.”

“What? Why?” Armie sounded panicked. Over what, Tim wondered. Him?

“I’ve got some stuff going on that I need to deal with,” he said. “It’s not...it has nothing to do with you. I promise. And I do want to come back, if there’s a spot for me. In a while.” If he could get back on his feet, get his guitar back. Why the fuck had he sold it, again? Oh, right. He was delirious.

“There’s always going to be a spot for you,” said Armie earnestly. “Tim, please tell me what’s going on and let me help. You’re making me crazy over here.”

Tim laughed in disbelief. “You really are an amazing person, you know? There’s nothing you can do. Don't worry about me. Please. I’ll call when I can come back.”

“Wait,” said Armie.

“Yeah?”

“Let’s meet for breakfast. Just tell me where.”

God, imagine if he said yes? Too bad he couldn't. “I told you, I’m sick.”

“Tim, you’re not...you’re not at home. You’re out somewhere. I don’t care if you’re really sick or not. Let me meet up with you. Please.”

Tim could hardly believe how Armie seemed to really want to help him. Part of him wanted that, needed that, but...he couldn’t just hand over the reigns to someone else. Not again. He needed to be making his own decisions, even if they were shitty ones. Like maybe lying down, going to sleep, and never waking up again. That would be so much easier, it couldn't be the wrong decision.

“No, Armie,” said Tim. “I’m sorry. I didn’t...you’ve been great. So, in case I don’t talk to you for a while, thanks for everything. The last couple of months have been...you really made my dream come true for a while, and I won’t forget that.”

“Tim. Timmy. Tell me where you are.” Armie sounded almost desperate. “Now, Tim. I’m coming to get you.”

Tim blinked back tears, wrapped his free arm around his waist to hold himself together. This man wasn’t his. He had his own life to lead. Tim didn’t have a right to interfere with that. He didn’t have any desire to mess it up. He wasn't worth it.

“Armie, stop. Just don’t worry about me. Focus on the pub, and Elizabeth, and Nick. His wedding is soon, right? You’re the best man, you’ve got a lot on your plate.”

An Ashmont train was pulling into the station, and Tim knew the conversation was about to be drowned out again. He decided to take advantage of that.

“Bye, Armie,” he said, and hung up.

Feeling like all the air had been let out of him, Tim dragged himself deep into the connector tunnel. He needed to sleep. He’d sleep, and then wake up, and figure out what to do next. Or maybe not wake up. Either way.

He dropped his duffle on the grimy tiles and curled around it, shoving his messenger bag under his head to use as a lumpy, semi-hard pillow. Once the straps were secured around his arms, he hugged the duffle close and burrowed his head down into his jacket.

He may have slept a bit, though it only seemed a moment. The next thing he was conscious of was a sharp voice in his ear. He knew what this was — a cop was moving him along. If he went quickly he wouldn’t get a ticket or arrested.

Tim groggily shoved himself to his feet. “I’m going, I’m going,” he mumbled, grabbing the straps of his bags.

But the cop reached out and grabbed his sleeve. “Hey, Tim.”

Tim froze. The cop knew his name? No, that wasn't right. He turned slowly, seeing Armie standing in front of him, looking upset. The blood drained from every part of his body and pooled in his feet.

_What the hell was he doing here?_

“Armie?” he gasped.

* * *

_Tim drew a shuddering breath and tightened his arms around his knees._

_At the worst point in his life, Armie had been there to keep him from falling further. He had demonstrated his character, his caring, his fucking stubbornness._

_The trouble is, that was_ Armie. _It didn’t help Tim determine who_ he _was._

 _Or...did it? Because, as he had realized that torturous night a few weeks earlier, he had kept letting himself get burned. He had been too trusting, naive,_ stupid. _And yet, each time he was kicked he got back up. Didn’t that say he had perseverance?_

_Except for that last time. Would he have gotten up himself if Armie hadn’t swooped in to save him? He supposed he’d never truly know._

_Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it was who he was, to be trusting, to need someone’s support. Maybe he could be the trusting one and Armie could be the smart one, he could be the one who needed someone and Armie could be the one who_ was _needed, and they could complement each other._

_And anyway, how was he supposed to know who he was at twenty-one years old? People spent their whole lives trying to figure that out. Maybe he didn’t need to know now, could figure that out with Armie by his side._

_Maybe he could accept that identity, or non-identity, as it were._

_Tim sighed. He was looking for an excuse, a way out. A way to go back into the bedroom and beg for Armie to take him back._

_So maybe the question he should be asking wasn’t “who am I?” but rather…_

Who do I _want_ to be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm onlyastoryteller on Tumblr.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things look up, in both the past and the present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back! Thank you all so much for your love for the last chapter. I know it was hard to read. Timmy isn't quite out of the woods yet emotionally, but things are starting to go better for him, so hopefully the rest of this story will go a little more smoothly! 
> 
> I'm hoping the next updates will come a little more quickly, as I've got a little more flexible time at the moment than I have in the past few months. Thank you for your patience, and thank you for still being interested in this story!
> 
> 100% fiction, of course.

__

[Art by Chalamazed.](https://twitter.com/chalamazed)

* * *

_Cautiously, so as not to make noise and wake Armie — who had undoubtedly fallen back to sleep by now — Tim leaned his back against the door to the bedroom. It made him feel marginally better, as though by connecting a part of his body to the portal that could get him to Armie, he knew the man was within his reach. He could_ think _this way._

_So. Who did he want to be?_

_The only thing Tim had always known he wanted to be was someone who made music. It had been a key part of his identity for so long he couldn’t remember_ not _having lyrics and melodies rattling around in his brain, looking for a way out._

_Since he had known this, he had taken action to make it happen. He had learned how to play instruments, wrote terrible songs, took lessons, studied, wrote better songs, and played until he dropped. He had worked at it, and…_

_...he had gotten it. Notwithstanding the rough time he had had over the past few months, there was no denying that he_ was _a musician. He had a paying gig, fans. He was going to get more. That one woman, the booking agent or whatever she was, had also been interested in him. In_ him, _not in Daniel. That was the reason Daniel had called back in October, after all. He had needed Tim in order to get the meeting with her. It was_ Tim _they wanted._

_Well, and that also told him that he was determined and persistent. Armie had said as much. Had said he admired that about Tim. So that was something else he already was._

_What else? What did he strive to be?_

_He thought of people he admired, the things they were. Was there anything about these people that he wanted to be himself?_

_There was Luca, who had seen something special in him among all of the students he met. Who had worked with him and pushed him to challenge himself. Who had taken him in when he was first without a place and who had talked him through that initial shock of being shoved out of his family._

_Luca was an educator...and that was something Tim maybe wanted to be, one day. He wanted to help others develop their talent. But perhaps more importantly, Luca was compassion, hospitality, and grace._

_Then there was Saoirse. Saoirse had reached out to him in friendship when he needed it, had helped him navigate the busking culture, hadn’t let him be down on himself. Saoirse was kindness and support._

_Pauline, his sister, was full of ambition and drive, but she was also protective of those she loved and loyal above all else. Tim smiled, remembering the ferocity with which she had interrogated Armie over the phone when she found out Tim was crashing with him, when she suspected that there was more between them than simple friendship._

_Pauline was also perceptive._

_Nick — who he had really just recently gotten to know — was generous, good-humored, and took everything in stride. Tim envied his ability to go with the flow, his easygoing attitude, the way he seemed to look at everything in a positive light with the faith that it would all work out in the end._

_Then...there was Armie._

_Where to even_ start _with Armie? Sure, he had some major flaws. They were in this situation, with Tim trying desperately to walk away, because of his major flaws. But there was so much more about him to love and admire._

_For one thing, he didn’t give up when it came to helping people he cared about._

* * *

Seeing Armie standing in front of him in the grimy subway tunnel like an avenging angel was like seeing a mirage in the desert. He almost expected to see the image waver at the edges, flickering and shimmering before it blinked out, another hallucination brought on by lack of sleep and food. 

His first reaction was relief. Joy. Warmth. _Armie is here, everything will be okay._

His second reaction was shock. _Armie’s here? Why the fuck is Armie here?_

His final reaction, the one that stuck, was defeat. _Armie’s here. Shit, he’s going to_ know _. It’s over._

Tim knew that once Armie found out what a complete failure he was, that all his support and encouragement had been a waste of effort, Armie would be done with him. He was perfect: successful, popular, competent at lots of things...why would he ever want to spend time around someone like _Tim_?

It was over. 

Armie was still gripping his sleeve, had said something about cracking a case — _what case, what was he even talking about_ — and Tim felt all the fight drain out of him. What was the point in struggling? It had only gotten him here, to the point where he was about to lose the last decent things in his life for good. 

So when Armie said “Come on, you’re coming with me,” Tim just hung his head and said, “Okay.”

Then Armie was taking Tim’s duffle and messenger bag, and Tim let him. He looked down at where Armie had grabbed his bicep, wondering why his hand was there. Did he think Tim was going to run from him? Was he _mad_?

Armie began walking up the tunnel, and Tim let himself be pulled along. But then Armie stopped and looked at him hard. “Tim, where’s your guitar?” he asked.

Tim shrugged. A spike of worry shot through his stomach. Armie’s voice was low and a little dangerous. 

“Did someone steal it? I swear to god, Tim—“

“No one stole it,” Tim said, as quietly as possible. If Armie was mad at him, it would be best if he made as little trouble as possible. But he couldn’t help a little plea for mercy. “Don’t yell.”

Armie closed his eyes, his face going stony. He _was_ mad. But then he opened them, and when he spoke, his voice was gentle, even. “No yelling. Okay? What happened to it?” 

Tim really didn’t want to admit to the stupid decision he had made the day before. He knew it had been stupid. He didn’t need someone to tell him it was stupid. “I know I fucked up,” he mumbled under his breath, staring at his feet. 

Armie leaned closer. “What?”

Tim took a breath. Armie wasn’t going to let it go. Tim was going to have to let himself get yelled at.

“I sold it,” he said, his voice catching at the end. He suddenly had the sensation of the weight of everything he had been through slamming into him, and he felt the ground shift under his feet. He stumbled.

“Jesus. Damn it, Timmy.” Armie let go of him. 

_This is it,_ Tim thought. _He’s done with you. You’re not worth his time or association._ He braced himself to be told off. Or to see Armie just turn and walk away. 

But instead, Armie stepped closer and wrapped his arm all the way around Tim’s shoulders. He shook as his body soaked in both the human contact and the warmth. It was so _warm_ , and Tim hadn’t been warm in such a long time. 

“Let’s go,” Armie said, his voice gruff.

Armie began to move again, and Tim did his best to keep up, cursing to himself that there seemed to be a delay or interference between his brain and his feet. Armie shifted slightly to the left, pulling Tim against his side, and Tim leaned on him, which helped. When they reached the surface, a gust of wind swept by, and Tim couldn’t help the pathetic sound that came out of his mouth. Armie moved again, putting himself between the wind and Tim. 

They reached a car parked on the street just outside the entrance to the station, and Armie helped him lean against it. He began to unlock the passenger door. _Armie’s car, then_. It wasn’t parked legally. He could get in trouble. Someone should warn him. 

“You’re not supposed to park here,” said Tim. He pointed at the “No Parking” sign he was standing under. “It’s illegal.”

There. That should do it. At least he could do that for Armie.

“So call the cops on me,” said Armie, opening the car door. “Come on, get in.”

Tim let Armie help him into the car, and then Armie reached across him and buckled his seatbelt. Like a child. He needed to be treated like a fucking _child_. His cheeks flooded with shame, and he couldn’t even look at Armie as he removed his bulky frame from Tim’s space and closed the door. 

Once in the driver’s seat with the car running, Armie spun the heater dial to full blast and fiddled with the vents. A rush of warm air hit Tim’s face and neck and he sighed. The warmth, and sitting in this comfortable seat, _inside_ , gave rise to a sudden wave of drowsiness. Tim laid his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes.

He felt the motion as Armie pulled away from the curb. It occurred to him to wonder, for a moment, where they were going. Was Armie just going to drop him at a shelter maybe? They wouldn’t be open for him this early in the morning. Or maybe there was something else, like that church. His curiosity finally got the best of him.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked. 

“Home,” Armie said.

“Oh.” _Home sounds good, let’s go home._ _Wait._ Tim’s eyes flew open and he focused on Armie. “What?”

“Home. My place. Where did you think I was taking you?” Armie asked, shooting him a glance before returning his attention to the road.

“I don’t...I wasn’t really thinking.” Armie was taking him _home_? That didn’t make any sense. All that would do was cause Armie a ton of trouble. He tried reason. “Armie, you don’t have to do this. You could drop me at a friend’s place—“

“A friend who you’ve clearly not been staying with until now? Hardly. Besides, I am a friend. So I am taking you to a friend’s place. Ha.”

Tim stared at Armie a moment. _A friend_. He thought about protesting some more, but Armie looked so pleased with his joke that Tim couldn’t help but smile. “I guess I can’t argue with that logic.” He closed his eyes again, and gave in to the pull of the drowsiness, lulled by the motion of the car.

He dozed, consciousness fading in and out. Armie called Nick. Something about the pub, and a gift. Tim heard his name, but wasn’t awake enough to put together what they were talking about from a one-sided conversation.

It was the car door slamming that woke Tim again. He blinked, raised his head, looked around. They were in a residential neighborhood, in the driveway of a pretty blue house. _Armie’s house?_ The car bounced slightly as the trunk slammed, and he watched, unmoving, as Armie carried his bags up to the front door and went inside.

He could go. Get out of the car, walk away. He hadn’t actually told Armie he was homeless yet.

A giggle escaped. Right, because Armie couldn’t tell, the way he had found him fucking sleeping on the floor of the subway tunnel. 

Still. He could run. Except all of his things were inside, including the last of his cash. His _guitar_ cash.

And...if he left, where was he supposed to go? He felt the helplessness bubble up inside of him. He had nowhere to go, so he had to let Armie take him inside. If he let Armie take him inside...what was the point? It’s not like he could afford to contribute to rent or something, and he’d be back where he started in no time. What was Armie planning to do? Why had he even come to the T station in the first place?

He was resolutely trying not to cry when Armie opened the passenger door. He stared straight ahead, knowing if he turned, he’d lose control.

“You still with me?” Armie asked. He sounded worried.

“Yeah,” said Tim.

“Then...let’s go inside. It’s cold out here.”

Tim closed his eyes and shook his head. “Jesus. What the fuck are you doing? Why am I here?” He hadn’t meant to sound so...petulant.

Armie hesitated. “Are you talking to me?”

“Yes, I’m talking to you,” said Tim. He finally turned his head to look up at the man who was standing next to the open door. “Why did you bring me here?”

“Because...where else am I supposed to bring you? Get out of the car,” he snapped, “or else I’m going to carry you inside.”

Tim blinked at him. _Fuck,_ he was mad. He lost the fight with the tears and, as he felt them swelling up into his eyes, he dropped his head in his hands to hide it a moment longer.

“Shit," said Armie. “I’m sorry. Timmy, I’m sorry. Just...you’re scaring the hell out of me, and I don’t know how else to make sure you’re safe.” Tim felt a large, warm hand land on his shoulder. “Can you come inside? I’ll help you. It’s warm in there. You can...take a shower, sleep, get something to eat...whatever you need.”

That all sounded... _amazing_. And Armie was being so gentle, and fucking nice, and...Tim shook his head but didn’t look up. “I’m so...fucking embarrassed,” he said. “This isn’t...it’s not me. It’s not. Or maybe it is. And I don’t want you to think it is me, because you think I’m...something special. And I’m not. I’m just...a fuck up. But I don’t want you to see that, not you.” He lifted his head and turned to look at Armie finally, needing to see his face, to know the moment Armie decided he was right, and this wasn’t worth the effort. “Now that’s all you’re going to see.”

Armie shook his head fiercely. “Wrong,” he said. “I still think you’re something special, okay? Otherwise I wouldn’t be here with you at all. I would have just said ‘okay catch you later’ when you called this morning.”

There was a moment when Tim registered the logic in Armie’s words, and then the phrase _catch you later_ flitted back through, and he laughed.

“What?” asked Armie, a smile spreading across his own face.

“‘Catch you later’? Is that how you talk?” Tim giggled, and then giggled harder, clutching his stomach. It wasn’t even that funny, but for some reason...it was.

“What’s wrong with that?” asked Armie.

“Nothing. Please please please use that for real at some point. In public. Promise me,” Tim gasped.

“I’ll do anything you want if you’ll just come in my house,” said Armie. “I’m freezing my balls off out here.”

Tim sighed, his giggles subsiding. “Yeah. Okay,” he said. Then he snickered. “Wouldn’t want that.”

Armie got to his feet and stepped aside, and Tim pushed himself out of the car, slamming the door behind him.

“Can you make it in?” asked Armie. “Or…”

“I’m okay,” said Tim.

He made it halfway up the stairs before it turned out he had lied. His knees seemed to give out without warning, and he pitched forward. Armie grabbed his hip, held on until he was stable again, and then slid his palm around to the small of Tim’s back. He felt his pulse pick up at the contact, even though he knew it was just for safety.

“I just haven’t...it’s probably because I haven’t eaten today,” Tim said in explanation, when they had reached the top. Why was he out of breath? It was one fucking flight of stairs.

“Today?” asked Armie as he reached around Tim and opened the door. “What about yesterday?”

“I ate yesterday,” said Tim. He had, right? Yesterday had been...Friday. On Friday, he had eaten something. A sandwich.

Armie led the way into the condo and Tim followed.

“What did you eat?”

“A sandwich,” said Tim. “From Subway.”

Armie rolled his eyes. “That’s it?”

“I was trying to save my money.” _Speaking of money..._ all of his money was in his bag. He hadn’t checked to be sure it was still in there since Armie had woken him up at the T station. What if it had been stolen? “Hey, where’s my bag?” he asked.

Armie pointed down the hall. “On the bed in the guest room, down there,” he said. “I didn’t go through your things, just brought them in.”

Shit, Armie thought he was being accused of stealing. It wasn’t Armie Tim was worried about. He shouldn’t panic. “No, I didn’t mean…” he trailed off, looking around him and trying to regain his equilibrium. He realized that he was standing in the entryway of a really nice condo. The hardwood floors gleamed in a warm honey color, the soft cream-colored walls were accented with vibrant artwork, and everything looked both comfortable and high quality. Tim had known _Cor Cordium_ was successful, but he hadn't realized it was quite this successful. “This is your place? It’s...nice.”

“Thanks,” said Armie. “Let me take your coat.”

When Tim removed his coat, he immediately felt the impact of the loss of the layer, and hugged himself for warmth.

“Still cold?” Armie crossed to the thermostat and fiddled with it. “This works pretty fast, it should be warmer in a minute or two. Follow me.” Tim followed him to a sweet little guest room, where Armie crossed to another door and opened it, revealing a small bathroom. “There’s towels in there. Why don’t you take a shower — or a bath if you’d prefer — and I’ll make you breakfast. Omelettes okay?”

_A shower._ When was the last time he had had a shower? Wednesday, maybe? He couldn’t remember. He probably smelled, especially from sleeping on the ground. He felt his face flush.

“Great,” said Tim. “I...thanks. I’d like a shower. I know I stink. I haven’t been able to get to a laundromat, and—“

Armie waved his hand. “You don’t stink,” he said. “But if you don’t have anything clean, I’ll bring you something to wear while we wash your stuff.  I’ll leave it on the bed.”

Tim nodded quickly, not sure what else to say. Armie nodded too, and then left the room, closing the door behind him.

Once the door was between them, Tim sagged in relief. He didn’t know what he was going to do, but...he had been offered a shower, and so he was going to start by taking it. Feeling a bit numb, he stumbled into the bathroom and closed the door. He fiddled with the knobs in the bathtub until a stream of scalding water was cascading from the fancy showerhead. Turning away from it, he peeled off his shirt and his pants, letting them fall to the floor in a heap. They were dirty anyway, it didn’t matter. 

When he straightened up, he caught sight of himself in the mirror and stared. He was paler than he remembered, and there were deep blue circles under his eyes. He was skinnier. He turned left and right, poking at the ribs that were sticking out from under translucent skin, tracing his fingers over his frighteningly concave stomach. It let out a whine in response, and he shushed it.

Armie had said something about making breakfast. Omelettes. Trickles of saliva ran down the sides of his mouth and he felt a pain in the pockets of his jaw at the thought.

_Okay, shower._

He stepped under the streaming water and groaned. It was so...warm. He turned his back to the cascade, letting it slide over his neck and shoulders until he stopped shivering. He hadn’t even realized he _was_ shivering, but he noticed when it stopped. He stood there a long while, not moving, just reveling in the sensation of the water on his skin, in his hair.

After a while, he reached for the bottle of shampoo, lathered up his hair. He dug his fingers into his scalp, scratching and scrubbing until he felt a little lightheaded. Then he rinsed out the suds and did it all over again. Next was the conditioner, something high quality. It slicked over his hair in a creamy layer, and smelled like lemongrass and sandalwood.

There was a bottle of body wash sitting to the side. He dumped a large portion into his palm and began to painstakingly scrub every inch of his body. He had reached his chest, and was bumping over his ribs, his fingers slipping between them, when he broke.

It seemed like the tears came out of nowhere, and once they started, it felt like they were never going to stop. He clutched at his stomach, heaving and doubling over from the force of the sobs. It was almost like an out of body experience. Mentally, he both knew and didn’t know what he was crying about. He was crying because of all of the shit he had to deal with, but at that moment, he had a place to be. Temporarily, but at least he could take a shower, wash his clothes, have something to eat. Regroup. It’s what he had wanted, when he had sold his guitar. He should be thinking about that, thinking about his next steps, not wallowing in his problems like this.

That thought just made him cry harder, and he let himself slide down to the floor of the bathtub. He sat there, the water crashing into him and mingling with his tears, and let himself cry. He cried for his broken relationship with his family. He cried for his lost friendships, his derailed education. He cried for the fact that he felt stupid, and naive, and helpless.

Eventually, it stopped, just like that. One second he was gasping for breath around sobs, and then next he was fine. He took a couple of deep breaths, blinked his swollen eyelids, and stood up. Turning to face the spray, he let the water wash away the salty wetness on his face and hands. Then he picked up the body wash again and started over.

By the time he was rinsing the conditioner from his hair, he had felt the tension slide from his muscles and his head was clear. He was calm. Serene, even. He would talk to Armie, see if he was serious about using the washing machine, try to figure out his next steps. He would manage, somehow.

When Tim walked out of the guest room, wearing the too-big t-shirt and sweatpants he had found neatly folded on the bed, he could smell cooked onions and rich coffee. Armie glanced up and placed two plates containing giant omelettes at the dining table.

“Sit,” he said.

His voice seemed to allow for no disagreement, so Tim sat. Armie brought over a coffee pot, filling his mug with steaming liquid. Then he set the coffee pot on a trivet on the table and took his own seat. He picked up his fork and began to eat, so Tim did the same.

The omelette was divine. The vegetables were crispy, the egg was perfectly seasoned, the cheese was rich. He told himself to slow down, but the message didn’t reach his hand, because he just kept shoveling bites into his mouth.

“So,” Armie said, after a while, “you want to tell me what happened?”

Tim paused, the fork halfway to his mouth. “What do you mean?”

“Well...how long has this been going on? Is it recent, or have you been...struggling...the entire time I’ve known you?”

Tim’s newly full stomach rolled. Was Armie going to think he couldn’t be trusted? That he had been lying to him? Which he _had_ , but not because he was trying to hurt Armie in any way. He set his fork down and took a breath, and decided to try to stall. “What would you say if I said I didn’t want to talk about it?”

Armie sighed. “Answer me one question, honestly, and I’ll let it go.”

One question. That might be all right. It certainly wasn’t too much to ask. Tim nodded. 

“Are you...is it because of something like drugs?” Armie asked, his face serious.

_What the fuck._

“Fuck you,” Tim said. He pushed his chair back from the table and stood. “Fuck you very much.”

“Hey, wait.” Armie stood as well, grabbed Tim’s shoulder. “Don’t freak out. I didn’t really think — I just had to ask. Okay?”

Tim bit his lower lip. He guessed it wasn’t _such_ an odd question. Lots of people got into trouble like he did because of substance abuse, alcoholism. “Yeah. Fine. Okay.”

They both sat again. After a moment, Tim began to eat once more, and Armie did as well. He kept his word and didn’t ask anymore questions, and Tim slowly relaxed.

When they were done, Armie picked up the plates. “You want another one?” he asked.

Tim shook his head. “Sort of, but if I do I might get sick.”

“Just let me know when you’re hungry again.” He crossed into the kitchen and rinsed the plates, placing them in the dishwasher. “I do have one more question,” said Armie.

“What?” asked Tim warily.

“Your guitar. Why did you sell it?”

Tim sighed. He hunched his shoulders, as if to hide himself as he admitted what he had done.

“I needed the money,” he said.

“But your guitar is how you got money,” said Armie.

“Yeah, I _know_.” How could he make Armie understand what he had been thinking, when he wasn’t entirely sure himself? “But...I hadn’t been able to get into a shelter since Monday, and I was going a little bit insane. I couldn’t think. I thought that if I could just get one night with a warm bed and a place to shower and do my laundry, I could figure out a way forward. I pawned it, figuring I’d find a way to get it back. Only…” he trailed off, hanging his head.

“Only what?”

Tim’s cheeks heated at the memory. “Only. I couldn’t get anyone to let me get a room,” he said. “I didn’t try everywhere, but everywhere I did try...it didn’t matter that I had the cash. They took one look at me and threatened to call the police. I should have set my sights lower,” he mumbled.

“Oh, Tim…” Armie closed his eyes, his lips turning downward. But when he opened his eyes, they were hard, flashing. “You know, if you weren’t such a stubborn asshole, you wouldn’t have had to go through that.”

Tim blinked at him. “Armie—“

“No, you know what? I’m kind of mad at you, and you might as well know it.”

He _was_ mad. Tim knew it. He was mad, he hated Tim, and he was about to kick him out.

Armie began to pace.

“I’ve been so worried this week. For the past couple of weeks, actually. I offered for you to spend more time in the pub, during the mornings, and you didn’t come. I offered to give you a job, and you turned me down. I got you a bunch of new gigs, and you said no. I even offered to let you crash here the other night, and you walked out.”

“I didn’t want—“

“I know. You didn’t want me to know what was going on. You didn’t want to need help. But you did need help. If you had just told me, it wouldn’t have gotten this bad. I wanted to help you, and you keeping this from me — your friend, remember? — was making both of us suffer.”

“But I couldn’t—“

“Yeah. You couldn’t take the gigs because you wouldn’t be able to get into the shelter. That’s why you couldn’t hold down a job, too, right?” Armie waited, and Tim nodded, because that was exactly it. “Okay, But it’s a cycle. A cycle you couldn’t break out of on your own. If you had just let me help you—“

He stopped pacing and crashed into his chair, burying his head in his hands.

“I was so scared for you. When you hung up this morning and then didn’t answer, I flipped out. I nearly called the cops.”

Tim stared at him, his mouth open. Armie _cared_ about him. Like, really cared. He cared more than those so-called friends from college, who gave up trying to reach him after only a few weeks. He cared more than his _parents_ , who were supposed to love him unconditionally, but who stopped answering his calls.

Armie _cared._ This man cared. About _Tim_. And wanted to help him.

“Armie,” Tim said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to bother anyone else with my problems.” He sighed, deciding to tell Armie at least part of the story. The man looked so stressed out, he at least owed him that. “Look, it started in the spring, after the semester ended. I was supposed to do a summer term, live in the dorms, but my parents...they stopped paying for school. So the school kicked me out.”

Armie raised his head and waited.

“I couldn’t go home, so I crashed with...a...friend.” He cleared his throat when the word got stuck. “I crashed with someone for a while in an apartment he was renting for the summer. But when school started again, he went back to the dorms, and I couldn’t...there wasn’t really anywhere for me to go.” He shrugged. “I managed for a while. I had been busking, and had made some friends that way. I stayed with some of them on and off, had enough cash for hostels now and then, stayed in shelters when I didn’t want to burden anyone and was out of money.”

When he didn’t go on, Armie spoke up, keeping his tone quiet. “When did that stop working?”

Tim shrugged. “A few weeks ago? The shelters started filling up earlier and earlier. There was less money coming in. I was having to choose between working and having an indoor place to sleep. And then it all just…” He threw up his hands. “The friends I had made stopped answering my calls, or went somewhere else for the winter, I don’t know.”

“That must have been terrifying,” said Armie.

“Yeah, well…”

“What happened with your family? Why did they stop paying for school?” asked Armie.

Tim shook his head. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? They just...did.”

Armie got to his feet and suddenly he was standing behind Tim, hands on his shoulders, massaging gently. It felt...amazing, and Tim felt tenseness in them melting away. He let his eyes slide closed. This was weird, right? It’s not like they knew each other that well. But it felt so right he leaned into it and relaxed.

After a few minutes, Armie spoke. “Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to go into the guest room, get into bed, and sleep until you’re not tired anymore.”

Armie’s hands moved up to massage his neck, and — _god, so embarrassing_ — he moaned. 

“Meanwhile, I’m going to go out and run some errands.”

Tim’s eyes fluttered open. “Where are you going?”

“The grocery store, for one. We need food. Any requests?”

“Whatever is fine,” said Tim. I _should offer to pay._ “I have cash, I can—“

“Nope,” said Armie. “Don’t even think about it. And don’t try to give me money to stay here, either. You’re staying here as long as you need to break out of that cycle and get on your feet. No arguments, I’m sick of arguing.”

Tim smiled at the playful but firm tone. “I’m going to argue.”

“Save it for later.” He patted Tim’s shoulder. “Now...go to bed.”

Tim stood and stretched. Sleep sounded so good, he didn’t have it in him to fight. “I am pretty exhausted,” he said.

He moved towards the guest room, then stopped and turned, the emotions suddenly overwhelming. “Armie...thanks. You have no idea…”

“I think I do,” said Armie. “You’re welcome. Just...be here when I get back, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” said Tim. He retreated into the guest room and closed the door. He wasted no time sliding under the covers of the bed, sighing at the feel of the mattress. How long had it been since he had slept on a good mattress? He couldn’t remember. Months.

Armie wanted him to stay here. In this bed. In this house, with him. A little thrill worked its way from his chest to his toes. He could hardly believe it was true. Part of him thought for sure he was going to wake up in the subway tunnel, or in a jail cell, or a hospital. That he had gone truly crazy and was having full blown hallucinations. He wasn’t this lucky. Ever.

As he drifted off to sleep, he decided that as long as he was having the hallucination, he might as well enjoy it.

* * *

When Tim finally woke up, he could tell by the darkness in the room that he had slept for the entire day.

Well, it made sense, he rationalized. He had barely slept in a week. Between that, and the stress, and being somewhere he felt _safe_ — and he did feel safe at Armie’s house, he realized — it was easy to slip into a deep sleep that lasted for multiple REM cycles.

He used the bathroom and combed his fingers through his hair, eventually giving up the fight against the wildly disorganized curls. He opened the door to the guest room and was immediately assaulted with the rich smells of dinner. And that was good, because he was definitely hungry again.

Tim shuffled into the living room and found Armie stretched out on the sofa, reading a book. He looked up and smiled. 

“What?” asked Tim, stopping short when he saw Armie grinning at him like a fool.

“Nothing,” said Armie. “You look...cute.”

_Cute?_ Reminding himself that Armie had a girlfriend, and was very much straight, and was just being friendly, Tim smiled back. “I feel like I’ve been asleep for days. What time is it?”

“A little before six. You hungry?”

“Starving. What smells so good?” 

Armie set his book aside and stood. “My famous chili,” he said. “Come on. It’s about ready, so you’ve got impeccable timing,”

Tim followed Armie through the dining room and into the kitchen. Armie lifted the lid off of the pot simmering on the stove and gave the contents a stir. He tasted it, and hummed with satisfaction.

“Grab a bowl,” he said, nodding at the bowls he had set on the counter earlier. Tim did as he was told, and Armie ladled a healthy helping of the chili. “There’s chopped onions and cheese if you want,” he said, gesturing at the counter. “And tortilla chips.”

They assembled their dinners and then sat at the dining table, the same spots they had taken that morning.

Tim tasted a small spoonful of the chili. It was incredible. Rich and silky and spicy.

“Wow,” he said. “This is excellent.” He blew on another spoonful and shoveled it into his mouth. “Holy shit, you can cook.”

Armie laughed. “Some things, anyway,” he said.

They ate in silence until Tim pushed his bowl away and sat back in his chair, rubbing his stomach and sighing in contentment. “Oh my god,” he said. “I’m literally not sure I’ve ever felt this...satisfied.”

“Good,” said Armie. He looked so pleased that Tim had enjoyed the dinner he had made, and Tim grinned at him in delight. “Unless you want more, why don’t you have a seat in the living room. TV remote’s on the coffee table. I’ve just got to put the rest of the dinner away and I’ll join you.”

"I'll stay and watch," said Tim. "I better learn where everything is. So I can clean next time. Or cook. If you’re going to insist I crash here, it’s the least I can do.”

Tim expected Armie to fight him on this — he was getting the sense that Armie was a caretaker by default — but Armie looked pleased. He showed Tim around the kitchen, and when they were done, they settled in the living room.

They had only just sat down when Tim sprang to his feet. “Be right back,” he said. Now that he had gotten some sleep, he was thinking more clearly. He needed to get his guitar back, and since it was on his mind, he wanted to grab the pawn ticket, have it ready to deal with the next day. He headed for the coat closet, found his coat, and slipped his hand into the inside pocket.

Empty.

“Fuck,” Tim said out loud. Where had it gone? How was it possible someone had stolen it? Why would they have stolen it? How would they have even known what it was, or cared? He headed for the guest room, wondering if he was remembering it wrong, and it was in his pants, or his bag, instead of his coat.

“Tim, come back here.” Armie’s voice reached him, and he turned around.

“I just have to check something,” he said. “It’s important.”

“Are you looking for the pawn ticket?” asked Armie.

“Yeah. I thought I put it in the zipper pocket of my coat, but maybe it’s in my wallet—” _Hang on a second._ “wait, how did you know?“ 

“Stay there,” said Armie.

Tim watched as he strode out of the room and around the corner, wondering how Armie had known about the pawn ticket, first of all, and what in the world he was doing. Then Armie returned, and his mouth dropped open when he saw what Armie was carrying. It was his guitar. His fucking _guitar._  

“What? How did you — what did you —“

“I didn’t like the idea of your guitar sitting in some pawn shop any longer than necessary. So I found your claim ticket and got it back,” Armie said.

He held out the guitar. Tim hesitated. “You went through my coat.”

“Yeah. I’d say I’m sorry, but apparently in this case I’m a controlling asshole who doesn’t care as long as you get your instrument back. Here.”

Tim blinked at him. “Thanks,” he said. “I’d rather you not go through my shit, though.”

“Noted.”

“Will you do it again?” Tim knew Armie had done a nice thing for him, retrieving his guitar and all, but the fact that Armie had gone into his coat without permission, had done this without permission...it made him a little uneasy.

“Maybe,” Armie said. “If it would let me do something to make you happy.”

Tim peered at Armie a moment, then rolled his eyes. He couldn’t be mad at Armie, not when he was clearly going out of his way to be helpful.

“Were going to have to come back to this subject. Let me get the cash,” said Tim. “How much did you pay to get it back? I probably have enough.”

“No. Keep your money,” said Armie.

Unease once again prickled on the back of Tim’s neck. Armie shouldn’t pay for his guitar. Armie was already letting him stay here, cooking him food. Adding the guitar onto it was...

“But this particular money I got by pawning the guitar,” he explained, thinking maybe Armie wasn’t understanding the logic. “So it makes sense to use it to buy it back. If I don’t need it for a place to stay.”

“And now you can use it for something else.” Armie stepped forward and forcibly placed the guitar in Tim’s arms. “Would you take it already? Jesus.”

Tim lovingly stroked the guitar for a minute, and the unease melted away. This was his baby, and he had it back. That stupid decision he had made had been undone, just like that. And Armie had done that for him. He felt a surge of affection.

“You are a controlling asshole,” said Tim, with a fond smile. “Are you going to be like this with everything?”

Armie shrugged, but he had the decency to look slightly contrite. 

“Maybe. Is that going to be a problem?” he asked.

Tim considered him a minute. “I’ll get back to you on that.”

Armie laughed. “Come on, let’s talk.”

When they were seated on the sofa again, the guitar stowed in the guest room, Tim spoke first.

“Now that I have that back, I can play tomorrow,” said Tim.

Armie frowned. “No,” he said.

“No?” _Fuck_. Had Armie decided that he was too much trouble to be playing at _Cor Cordium_? “On the phone this morning, you said — do you not want me anymore? I guess I fucked up by not being reliable. But—“

Armie held up a hand. “Of course I want you, will you shut up a second? Stop jumping to conclusions. You already took tomorrow off; Nick probably found a backup act. You could use the time to recover. Coming back Wednesday is fine.”

Tim licked his lips. “Okay, but...what am I supposed to do instead? I’m not actually sick.”

“You’re going to spend the day putting your life back together,” said Armie.

“Like…”

“Like your phone. What really happened? They don’t turn it off because you forget to pay once.”

Tim sighed. “Yeah. My parents used to pay for it. When they stopped, I couldn’t afford it, so I missed a couple of months. Eventually I changed my plan, took away the data, tried to make it as cheap as possible, but I only ever made partial payments, so...they shut it off. I had enough to buy a cheap pre-paid. That’s how I called you this morning.”

“The phone you didn’t answer when I called you back.” Armie’s voice had a hard edge to it, and Tim winced.

“Well...it’s pre-paid. Limited minutes. I knew it was you, and I knew you’d just keep asking me questions I wasn’t gonna answer, so I let it go to voicemail.” That was close to the truth, anyway.

Armie nodded. “Fair enough. I guess I can forgive you for ignoring me. Just don’t...don’t do it again, okay?” Armie sounded so distraught that Tim was compelled to reach out and lay a hand on Armie’s arm.

“I won’t,” he said. “Promise.” And he meant it, he realized. Armie was demonstrating that their friendship was real. That he was willing to be inconvenienced for Tim. The least Tim could do was make sure that he didn’t make Armie worry.

“Who was your carrier?” Armie asked.

Tim told him.

“There’s a store in Porter Square. We can go over there tomorrow, straighten it out so you can use your old phone again. Do you still have it, or did you sell it?”

“I have it. It’s not the newest model, so it wouldn’t have gotten me that much cash. I probably would have sold it eventually, but...it’s in my bag.”

“Good. How much did you owe? How many months did you skip?”

Tim scrunched up his forehead in thought. “Three maybe, before I canceled the data and tried to fix the problem.”

“So that’s...like three hundred? Four hundred?”

“Something like that,” said Tim. “You think they’d reinstate it with a partial payment? The guitar money would cover most of that, but not all of it.”

“Let’s worry about it tomorrow,” said Armie.

“Okay,” said Tim. “What else beside the phone?”

“Then, after we deal with that, you’re going to come up with a plan.”

“A plan for…”

“For you. You said that you sold the guitar so you could get at least one night indoors in comfort so you could think straight. Right?”

“Right.” Tim jiggled his foot nervously and tried to explain. “I just...I couldn’t think. All I could think about was being...cold. And dirty. And constantly afraid someone was going to steal my shit, what little I had left. I thought if I could not feel that way for just a minute, I would be able to see straight enough to come up with some way to...not have things be so fucked up.” Those fucking tears were coming back again. Tim thought he was done with that, after the bout in the shower. He dashed them away quickly.

The next thing he knew, Armie had grabbed his shirt and yanked him forward, wrapping his arms tightly around Tim and holding him close. Tim responded naturally, folding himself into Armie’s embrace. He felt a tumult of emotions whirling inside him: gratitude, happiness, shame, relief...it all mixed together to make his chest squeeze tight. So he rested his forehead on Armie’s collarbone and inhaled the scent he had come to associate with comfort and safety. Armie stroked his hair, and the emotions began to settle, one by one, leaving him with a calm contentedness he hadn’t felt in a long while.

“That’s over,” said Armie, his voice gentle and soothing. “You’ve got a place to stay, and not just for a night. For as long as you need, all right? Your things are safe, you’re safe...and we can figure out what you want to do next.”

Tim flattened his palms against Armie’s chest and sighed.

“I don’t really understand why you’d do this for me,” said Tim, his voice muffled in Armie’s shirt. “But I’m going to let you, at least for a minute. Because I’m so fucking tired of feeling like I’m running up a down escalator with a shark-infested pool at the bottom.”

Armie tightened his arms and dropped a kiss onto the top of Tim’s head. Tim’s heart beat twice in one moment, a sharp _thunk-thunk_ , at the movement.

“So,” Armie said, “tomorrow we can come up with a plan. Figure out what you want and how you’re going to get it now that you don’t have to worry so much about surviving. Tonight...I feel a bad movie marathon coming on.”

Tim pushed against Armie and sat up. Armie let him. “How bad are we talking?” he asked.

“We’re talking...that we scour Rotten Tomatoes for the lowest rated movies and hunt them up on Netflix or Prime. No wimping out.”

Tim grinned. That sounded perfect. “I’m in.”

He could barely believe that he was here, in Armie’s house, about to watch movies with him. That Armie _wanted_ him here. It was the kind of thing he had been dreaming about, that he hadn’t let himself believe would happen. Now he just needed to not fuck it up and wear out his welcome. He needed to be a perfect houseguest, pay Armie back for all his help, both literally and by getting back on his feet. He’d do what Armie had suggested, and sit down the next day and make a plan. Maybe things would actually work out.

For the first time in a long time, Tim felt hope.

* * *

_The incident with the guitar had been Tim’s first hint that Armie had trouble with certain boundaries. He knew then that there was maybe a minefield there, and his instincts about it — that they needed to talk about it, had been right. This was a major flaw._

_But they had talked this evening, and Tim believed that Armie understood what he was doing wrong and was going to make a real attempt to fix it. Tim couldn’t demand absolute assurances. That wouldn’t be fair. People couldn’t change overnight, and he needed to give Armie a chance to try, and maybe fail a few more times, before succeeding._

_So while that flaw was scary, because it amplified Tim’s fears about losing control of his own life until it was too late, it was actually Armie’s good qualities that posed an equal problem. The man was too generous and giving for his own good. His need to constantly take care of Tim could be wonderful, but it could also be stifling and suffocating._

_And yet...it was because of love._

_Armie_ loved _him. He had said it. Tim smiled at the memory, a hand drifting to rest on his lips. He mouthed the words back._ I love you. _He did. He loved this man. Had since practically the first time they spoke. That had to be worth something. It had to be worth a lot._

_Maybe the problem here was not Armie’s flaws, but rather Tim’s own issues. If this relationship was going to work — and fuck, he wanted it to work — he had to find a way to be comfortable with the way Armie needed to love him. Armie demonstrated his love through caring and gifts, and Tim needed to learn how to accept that without feeling like it made him helpless._

_He just wished he knew how._

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This will not match up with part one chapter by chapter. The first chapter happens to, but it won't always. In fact, it won't most of the time. Just hang on for the ride and I'll try to get us through to the end in one piece. Mostly.


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